The Adventure of Ex President Murillo's Papers
by Westron Wynde
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes falls dangerously ill, Dr Watson is forced to assume the mantle of detective on behalf of his friend, only to find himself in deeper waters than he had ever imagined... COMPLETE!
1. I: The Ailing Detective

**Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson et all are the creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This story is a work of fan fiction, written by a fan, for the pleasure of other fans and no harm is meant or intended by its creation.**

_Yep, it's one of those unpublished cases that Watson is so fond of tantalising us with, as mentioned in 'The Norwood Builder'. Here is my interpretation of the case. Well, it could have happened like this, maybe, just maybe..._

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_**The Adventure of Ex-President Murillo's Papers**_

**I: The Ailing Detective**

Looking back over those few cases that my friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, deemed permissible for me to make public to the world, I find that I have littered those tales with vague references to his many other dealings. In doing so, I have perhaps been remiss, for, in my enthusiasm to reveal the sheer scope of his range and ability, I have unwarily heightened my readership's desire to know more.

The exact nature and detail of some of those cases must be forever buried. Some may come to light when the principle players are placed far beyond harm's reach.

In this particular case, however, it has been my own pride which has held my hand, as the events which occurred have ceased to have relevance for some twenty years or more. Of all the unpublished cases I keep on record, this has been the one that Holmes has always been most keen for me to set down on paper, if only to prove that I will never be the detective he is, for my role in this affair hardly does me justice.

In my defence, it began with the best of intentions. It was just over two months since Holmes had made his dramatic return in the spring of 1894, simultaneously solving the mystery surrounding the death of the Honourable Ronald Adair. Almost immediately, we had been pitched into the shocking affair of the Dutch steamship _Friesland_, during which, as regular readers will remember in my earlier reference, we were in peril of both our lives.

So close a brush with death had produced within me a feeling of disquiet, to the extent where I felt compelled to spend a few days away from the oppressive heat of the city. Therefore, a few days after completing the sale of my Kensington practice and moving what little there was of my possessions back to our old rooms at Baker Street, I found myself on a train bound for the Cotswolds, armed with my trusty fishing rod and tackle.

The sweetness of the country air, the cool waters of the lazy rivers and the complete sense of freedom did wonders for my state of mind, and I returned on the Sunday afternoon in high spirits. The trout I had caught was duly presented to Mrs Hudson, who, despite sniffing suspiciously at this offering, promised to do the best she could in its preparation for our evening meal.

Without a care in the world, I fairly bounded up the stairs and entered the sitting room to inform Holmes of my return. At first, I thought him absent, as the room was strangely tidy and I had no reply to my call. Only on the point of leaving did I hear the faintest rustle of clothing, the sound of which stayed my hand on the door handle.

Closer examination revealed that Holmes was lying curled up on the sofa, his knees tightly drawn up, his face sweaty and ghastly pale, and still clad in his nightshirt and dressing gown, which even for a man of his irregular habits was unheard of at this late hour. It did not take a medical degree to see that he was quite seriously ill.

He had not stirred at my earlier call, and it took some gentle shaking to force him to open his eyes. When he did so, it took a few moments before he was able to focus on my face and a few seconds more before he was able to express his gratitude at my return.

"Watson," said he, rather weakly to my ears, "you're back. How was the fishing?"

"Hang the fishing, Holmes. It's you I'm worried about. You don't look well at all."

He gave a slow shake of his head and tried to prop himself up on his elbow, failing twice before finding a comfortable alternative.

"This is nothing," said he, dismissively. "A slight distemper."

"How long have you been like this?"

"Not long. It will pass."

In matters of his health, Holmes could be annoyingly vague, which to a trained medical mind is neither helpful nor reassuring. He has often said that he has the greatest faith in my skills as a doctor, and yet time and again has he proved unwilling to commit his care into my hands.

Normally, I would let him alone, mindful that Holmes was quite capable of taking care of himself; on this occasion, however, all my instincts told me that he had vastly underestimated the severity of his condition.

Much to his obvious irritation, I put my hand to his forehead, resisting his feeble attempts to brush me away. The skin burned under my touch, confirming as I suspected that he was running a high fever.

"Have you eaten?" I asked.

"No. I have not felt equal to making that effort."

"How about yesterday?"

"A little. To tell the truth, I was somewhat distracted."

It pained me to think what that distraction might be. I had hoped that three years of adventurous living would have given him enough to occupy his mind for a lifetime without having to resort to his habits of old.

Leaving his side, I went to the desk where he kept the paraphernalia of his dependency. Sure enough, the drawer was ajar. I pulled it open fully and found immediately what I had expected to see. Any goodwill that lingered after my weekend break promptly evaporated. My disappointment was absolute. That so soon after triumph Holmes should submit to such inglorious measures revolted and angered my soul.

His health had been strained after that last affair, and I could only assume that this mistreatment of himself had produced the state in which I now found him. I was of a mind to leave him to his own devices, but the friend and doctor in me softened the edge of my temper. That, and the fact that I now turned back to find him struggling from the sofa, produced the nagging suspicion that there was more to his present condition than mere self-induced folly.

I offered to help him, but he would not have it. With effort, he forced himself upright, wincing as he did so, and staggered in the direction of his bedroom. I watched him go, feeling my unease growing with every unsteady step he took. The door closed, and to my surprise, I heard the key turn in the lock.

Never before had he so pointedly shut me out. Either my questions had somehow offended him or there was something he did not wish me to see. I fervently prayed it was the former, although every professional instinct was telling me that it was the latter.

I was alarmed enough to turn back to the contents of the drawer. Amongst the clutter was an almost empty bottle of morphine. I had, it seemed, assumed all too hastily that his choice had been for escape. The evidence pointed instead to a self-administered need for pain relief.

Barely had I time to digest this fresh information than to my ears came the sound of retching from behind his closed door. I cursed his obstinacy and my willingness to believe the worst of him, and I tested my weight against the lock. Mrs Hudson was not going to be best pleased at the prospect of a broken door, but then I hardly thought she would have approved of me leaving Holmes to die either.

As it happened, it did not come to that. The key scraped in the lock from the inside and I found the knob turning freely in my hand. He had evidently thought better of preventing my admittance.

I entered to find Holmes settling himself on his bed, his eyes half-closed against the pain from which I now could readily see that he was suffering. He had been sick, but had brought up very little, confirming what he had already told me about his loss of appetite.

A number of possible causes sprang to mind, most principally one to which I knew Holmes would most object. However, looking at him now, deathly white and shivering, I doubted he was in much of a mind to put up a struggle.

"Why ever are you standing there, Watson?" said he, glancing sideways at me. "Do not trouble yourself on my account."

"I will not leave you like this."

"I have had worse."

"I sincerely doubt that. Whether you like it or not, I'm going to examine you."

"No!" he objected with as much strength of voice as he could muster. "Even the closest of friends must observe each other's boundaries, and I would be obliged if you did not take it upon yourself to presume that I am willing to submit to such an indignity."

"Rubbish. You are ill."

"No, Watson, I will not permit you –"

"And how are you going to stop me?" said I, sitting on the bed beside him.

Holmes will ever think that he knows best. I will grant that in some matters, this is the truth; when it comes to matters of diagnosis and treatment, however, that privilege I reserve solely for myself. Added to which, it distressed me to think that I had left him with the beginnings of a disorder that could so quickly have led to his death. Even now, he seemed shrunken, vulnerable almost, a pale reflection of the man in whom so many placed their confidence. One of us needed to be strong, and that role fell to me.

As it happened, he was too weak to resist as I pulled back his dressing gown and laid my hand as gently as I could on the lower right side of his stomach. His reaction was immediate, his famous self-control for once deserting him. Beneath my hand, the muscles tensed and quivered, and his breathing became laboured. He sought to contain it and only when I removed my hand did he cease sucking in his breath between his teeth.

"It hurts?" I asked.

His reply came as nod.

"How long have you been taking morphine for the pain?"

His eyes slowly opened to stare at me with some small trace of anxiety therein. "Since yesterday," he said, stumbling over the words. "Watson, leave me. I will be well soon enough."

"No, Holmes, unless you are treated, you will die, horribly and in a great deal of pain, worse than what you experiencing now. I believe you have appendicitis."

He shook his head. "You are wrong, Doctor."

"Yes, in that you are probably right," I retorted. "In fact, I think you have acute appendicitis and are likely to be dead by tomorrow."

I dislike the modern recommendation of scaring a patient into necessary treatment, but in Holmes' case, I had either to take a firm line or stand by and watch him die. The former was eminently preferable if I wished to avoid the latter.

"There is a new surgical procedure for dealing with the condition. It will mean a stay in hospital –"

"No!" said he. "I have no wish to die in a bed that is not my own."

"Don't be so melodramatic, Holmes," said I. "Many people have recovered from acute appendicitis once the surgery has been performed. Without intervention, your life expectancy is very short indeed."

"Shorter still if I set one foot inside an infernal hospital," he murmured. "Never will I agree." He turned his head to look at me and my gut knotted to see an almost desperate entreaty in his eyes. "Watson, if it must be done, you do it."

"I cannot. I have only read of the procedure, not performed it."

"Then it cannot be trusted. I will not submit."

How anyone with so logical a brain could have so illogical a reaction to the merest mention of hospitals has always been a puzzle to me. I have had other patients who have explained their fears as being the result of losing a family member to recent surgery or being panicked by tales of infections caught in the wards.

In Holmes' case, I am less certain of the cause, but I am aware that his fear persisted. Some years after these events, in the case of the Illustrious Client, the particulars of which I have already related, Holmes would again reject the relative safety of the Charing Cross hospital after being attacked by ruffians for the more familiar surroundings of Baker Street.

To this day, the reason remains his secret and my eternal curiosity. I have never questioned him on the subject and he has never offered to enlighten me. As he himself stated, even the closest of friends must observe each other's boundaries in that respect.

In the present situation, however, Holmes' stubbornness posed a considerable problem. The longer I delayed, the worse he was liable to become and the less optimistic his chances of recovery. He still possessed the strength to resist and, short of hitting him over the head and forcibly carrying him to the hospital, there seemed little I could do. Where there is a will, there is usually a way in such matters, and I soon saw how I could secure his safe arrival into the surgeon's care without resorting to more brutish methods.

The solution lay upstairs in the assorted box of medicines I had retrieved from my former practice and had yet to unpack. It did not take me long to find a full bottle of morphine and prepare a dose calculated to reduce even Holmes' formidable constitution to the level of a sleeping baby. My conscience bothered me a little at the thought of forcing him into what for him would be an ordeal and I had to quash it by telling myself that one must be cruel if only to be kind.

This opinion was confirmed when I returned to his side to find him visibly suffering from the worsening effects of his condition.

"For the pain," I told him, as I rolled back his sleeve. "If you won't heed my advice, at least I can make you comfortable."

He made no effort to resist me, believing faithfully my lying words. I hated to betray his trust and had to compel myself to administer the injection. Such was its potency that in very little time I saw the beginnings of peace sweep the deep creases of pain from his face and give him blessed relief. Drowsiness was overwhelming him and I thought he would slip quietly into its embrace, but at that final moment before he succumbed, his eyes flew open and he grabbed at my hand, his grip tight and crushing.

"What have you done?" he whispered. "Do not let them take me!"

"My dear friend, all will be well, have no fear," I said, soothingly, gently pushing him back down onto the bed. "Go to sleep now."

He could not fight the pull of the drug and he fell limply back on the pillows. His hand remained in mine, his grip weakening by the second. When next he spoke, it was so quiet I had to lower my head to his mouth to hear the words, which sent a lance of traitorous agony straight through my heart.

"Stay with me, John," came the soft words. "Do not let me die alone."

What little strength remained failed him with those final words. Sleep took him and his head lolled to one side, as meek as any newborn kitten. His fingers relaxed and his hand fell from my grasp.

At that moment, I counted myself amongst the lowest of God's creatures, to have betrayed his trust in so grievous a fashion. Never before had he used my Christian name and to hear it now made my misery complete. Worse of all, in his final moments of consciousness, he had known what I had done. For his own good, I had denied him a choice and delivered him up to his worst nightmare.

I knew that if he died I would never forgive myself.

If he lived, I doubted whether he would ever forgive me.

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_To Be Continued…_

_Reviews are always welcome and greatly appreciated!_

_On a historical note,__ Reginald Fitz first described the symptoms of acute appendicitis in 1886__, with Dr Thomas G. Morton of Philadelphia performing the first successful operation for the removal of the appendix in 1887._


	2. II: The Wait

_**The Adventure of Ex-President Murillo's Papers**_

**II: The Wait**

Several hours later found me pacing a hospital corridor and trying to reassure myself that the promise I had made Holmes, that all would be well, would soon be realised.

In truth, I had my doubts. I am not blind to the fact that all invasive surgery carries risks and relatively new procedures even more so. My last sight of my friend had been as he had been borne away into the operating theatre, amidst much interest from the assorted trainee doctors and medical students. That had been over an hour ago, and I had received no word as to his condition since.

In all probability, I knew I had acted correctly from a medical viewpoint. I had seen too many lives lost needlessly to a ruptured appendix and the resulting peritonitis that invariably followed. Back in my student days, the teaching was that the use of laxatives and emetics was the best course of treatment, and that it was better a man died of his condition than have his body sliced up like a carcass in a butcher's shop. I am eternally glad to say that medical practice has become considerably more enlightened since then.

I was aware, however, that the old preference for non-intervention until the last possible minute still held sway at many of the major hospitals. For this reason, I had forsaken the local infirmaries to bring Holmes to my old hospital, University College, where I knew the new procedure had already enjoyed some success. My former connections were enough to have him admitted without delay and Holmes' celebrated name had persuaded the chief surgeon to leave his Sunday dinner and return to operate.

Thus far, everything had worked in his favour. I told myself that there was no reason to assume the worst, although every minute that dragged on spoke of unforeseen complications.

It was to my considerable relief when the sound of banging doors heralded the end of my wait. Out into the corridor came a surgeon with smears of blood daubed up the front of his white apron. It was more than a little disconcerting when the realisation struck me that that blood must surely belong to my friend.

He had turned in the opposite direction and I called after him, making him stop. The light of recognition came to his eyes as I saw a face I remembered immediately.

"Harwood?" said I, seeing the familiar features of young medical student I had known behind the man's bushy whiskers.

"Why, Watson, upon my word, it's been too long," said he, holding out his hand for me to shake. "Well, well, what brings you here?"

"Mr Sherlock Holmes."

"Ah, the appendectomy case."

"How did it go?"

"Well enough. Another hour or so and we would have been looking at a rupture. It was quite an acute case. You did well to bring him in as soon as you did."

"No complications?"

"There was some minor associated bleeding, but other than that, the prognosis is good, if he survives the trauma of the surgery, that is. The next few hours will be crucial."

The relief I felt in hearing this was almost indescribable. My decision had been vindicated and I could draw some consolation in knowing that thus far I had done my best to preserve Holmes' life.

"May I see him?" I asked.

"I don't see why not. Not that's there's much to see, mind. He's heavily sedated at present. Come, I'll take you to him."

As we walked, I was aware that my companion was regarding my country attire in some small amusement.

"I've just got back from a few days in the Cotswolds," I explained. "I haven't had time to change."

Harwood grunted in understanding. "I thought it rather unorthodox for a fashionable doctor-about-town."

"I was never that."

"Compared to the rest of us, you were positively dandified, Watson. I never knew you once turn up for lectures with a hair out of place."

"You would find me rather changed since those days," I said ruefully.

"Ah, yes," said he. "Time, the subtle thief of youth, has stolen away all our yesterdays."

"Well, you seem to be doing well enough. Chief Surgeon, are you now?"

He shook his head. "Assistant to the Chief Surgeon, Sir Roger Gudgeon. He's a good man, very progressive, even if he does guard his position most jealously."

"He performed the surgery?"

"Oh, yes. Then straight back home to his roast beef." He chuckled. "The minor details he leaves to us lesser mortals and takes the credit."

I sympathised. "Wasn't that always the case?"

"Not in general practice, so I understand. You've been making your mark, from what I hear. Kensington, is it?"

"No more. I've just sold the practice."

A smile crossed his lips. "Do I detect the hand of Mrs Watson in this decision? Are we to lose you to a country practice far away from this grimy city?"

He must have seen my expression, for he came to a halt and shook his head. "Oh, my dear fellow, my apologies. Forgive my blunder. I did not know. When did it happen?"

"Almost a year ago now. Scarlet fever."

"My condolences."

"Thank you. And you?"

"I took the plunge when you were out in Kandahar. Fourteen years and five children later, we are happy enough. Ah, here we are."

We had entered a large ward, with five beds on each side of the room, interspaced by sizable windows. There had been some changes since my trainee days, not least in the removal of the dark and heavy wood panelling on the walls, which had been replaced by cream and green tiles. Curious gazes from the other patients followed our progress to a bed at the rear of the ward, where another doctor stood in attendance, giving instructions to a nurse, who departed as we arrived.

"Tillings," said Harwood, nodding to his colleague. "How is the patient?"

In my opinion, for what it was worth, I thought Holmes looked remarkably well considering his ordeal. His drug-induced sleep gave him the attitude of peace after toil and I was struck by the realisation that I had never in fact seen him so still.

The thin hands, nearly as white as the sheet on which they rested, were relaxed and did not betray the usual signs of restlessness to which I had become accustomed. The worse I could say was that he seemed paler than before, if that was possible, not unsurprising given the procedure which he just undergone.

It was only left to Tillings to confirm my assessment.

"He's stable," said he, in answer to Harwood's question. "You did a fair job of closing the incision. Very neat."

"Why, thank you," came Harwood's somewhat sardonic reply.

"And who is this?"

"Dr Watson, Dr Tillings. Dr Watson is –"

"The writer of fanciful mystery stories, yes, I know. Excuse me, I have other patients to whom I must attend."

Harwood watched him go with a rueful smile on his face. "Don't mind him, he thinks the world begins and ends at the hospital door."

"He seems very dedicated."

"Yes," Harwood said thoughtfully. "Dedicated, but lacking in that intuition that makes a good doctor. You know, Watson, if ever you find this new life of leisure of yours beginning to pall, you might do worse than to consider returning here. We are always in need of good doctors, and you, my friend, were one of the best in our year."

"You seriously mean that?"

"I wouldn't have suggested it if I didn't. Whenever you're ready, just let me know and I'll have a word with Sir Roger. Although," he added, "I doubt we can offer you such a glamorous life as your friend here."

I chuckled in spite of myself. "Hardly glamorous, Harwood. Adventurous, maybe. Dangerous, definitely."

"Well, I would swap with you at the drop of a hat. I'll wager that people will still remember your name long after we're gone."

"It's not fame I seek." I caught myself sighing as my gaze was pulled back to the bed and its slumbering occupant. "Would you mind if I stayed? I did promise Holmes I would. He has a fear of hospitals."

"Surprising how many people do. Of course you can stay, although there's not much you can do. He's comfortable enough and I doubt he'll wake until the morning. Tell you what, I'm due a break. Why don't we go for a drink and discuss old times?"

As suggestions went, it had some appeal. I was tired and my nerves were frayed. As disloyal as I felt, there was really little to be gained in sitting by Holmes' bedside, waiting to face his displeasure. All the same, I could not shake that earnest entreaty from my mind or the very real fear I had seen in his eyes at the prospect that awaited him.

"Another time, perhaps," said I. "I should stay in case he awakes."

Harwood nodded. "As you wish. We'll catch up another time. Don't forget my offer, Watson."

"I won't. And thank you."

As it happened, the crucial hours came and went, and Holmes made no sign of stirring. My conscience felt a little better at having maintained my vigil, although I was left feeling physically and mentally exhausted. I do not know at what hour my eyes finally closed; all I can remember is waking up to bright sunlight streaming through the crack between the bottom of the curtains and the window sill.

Refreshment and a change of clothes were in order, so I took myself back to Baker Street to reassure Mrs Hudson and gather a few essential items that Holmes would need during his hospitalisation. I stopped off to send a wire to the Diogenes Club to let his brother know of his condition before returning to the ward, armed with an assortment of reading materials and a suitably contrite manner.

It came as no surprise to learn that Holmes had finally awoken during my absence; it was just the sort of thing he would do to make me feel even worse about my actions of the previous evening than I already did. Pillows had been propped behind his head to raise him into a sitting position, although from his painfully slow movements, I gathered that he was still very weak.

On a positive note, he did seem most gratified to see me and I was pleased to find that he was in a most forgiving mood.

"Watson," said he, offering me a wan smile. "Good to see you."

"We are still talking then?" said I, positioning myself at the end of the bed.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"You don't remember?"

His gaze shifted away from mine for a second before returning. "If, by that enigmatic statement, you mean do I remember you drugging me, then yes. After that, however…"

"I brought you here and had you admitted."

"Your old hospital. Where else?" His smile broadened and he gestured for me to approach. "Do come and sit down. You look like you're waiting for an omnibus standing there."

Accordingly, I found myself a chair and pulled it over to his bedside. "You aren't angry?" I asked.

His expression sobered considerably as he shook his head. "I'm told my condition was serious."

"It was. How long had you been having pain?"

"Several months."

"And you said nothing?"

"You would have made a fuss."

"A justifiable one, Holmes! You cannot ignore your health without suffering the consequences."

"True. Perhaps I was hoping it wasn't as serious as I thought. Well, what's done is done. And I forgive you, Watson, for your somewhat brusque bedside manner. If you had to resort to drugging all your patients to make them have treatment, I'm surprised you had any left."

I gathered that was the most I was to get by way of either thanks or an apology, and decided that a little was better than nothing. Besides, he had tempered his criticism with a smile, so that I knew this gentle chiding was in good humour. In all honesty, however, just to see the old spark return his eyes and hear that ready wit again was reward enough.

"So, what do you have for me?" he asked, eyeing the bundle of papers I had on my lap.

"What would you like? _The Telegraph, The Times_?"

He closed his eyes and sighed. "Neither. I'm too tired to read. And too sore to hold up a broadsheet." He opened one eye to glance over at me. "Although if you have the time to read aloud the most pertinent stories, I will endeavour to pay the utmost attention."

"I have nothing pressing this morning," said I, taking up the top paper and scanning the front page for anything which might interest him.

"But you must be tired, Watson. To have spent all night here…"

I knew what he was trying to say. I also knew that we had been friends enough years to negate the need for such sentiments.

"It was the least I could do, Holmes," said I, relieving us both of the necessity for gratitude and acceptance. "Now, it seems there was a jewel robbery last night in Bond Street. Interested?"

"Not really, but with a lack of alternatives to occupy my time, I might as well hear what you have to say on the subject."

And with that, I began to read.

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_Continued in III:The Letter_

_On a historical note, blood transfusions were not common until the early years of the 20__th__ century. The __need for antisepsis during operations was accepted in __1867, but there were no proper __antibiotics to treat infections until the discovery of pencillin in 1928. Having an operation in the late 19th century was still a risky business._

_As ever, reviews always welcome and much appreciated._


	3. III: The Letter

**_The Adventure of Ex-President Murillo's Papers_**

**III: The ****Letter**

"Draper's bill."

A sheet of paper wafted past my face and I managed to catch it before it reached the floor.

The difference a day had made was quite marked. Holmes was back to his usual irascible self, leafing through his post with ever rising annoyance. He was clearly feeling better; this morning I found him shaved, sitting up of his own free will and growing increasingly restless. This latter mood tended to worry me, not least because I knew it would not be long before he started talking about discharging himself.

"Bill. Another bill. _Overdue _bill. Bill. Ah, this one is yours," said he, tossing the letter in my direction. "And yet another bill. Watson, if you insist on depressing me in this manner, at least have the good sense to bring my chequebook so that I may at least make some attempt to clear my debts."

"I will endeavour to remember in future," said I, collecting the fallen papers from the floor. "I'm sure, however, that none of these are so urgent that they will not wait until you return home."

"Two weeks!" he said with a mournful sigh. "I shall go quite mad from this enforced inactivity. Are you quite sure I must remain for such a long period?"

"If you wish to heal adequately, then yes, Holmes. I'm afraid I must insist."

He lay back on the pillows and another sigh, filled with his own deep sense of misery at his predicament, escaped his lips.

"You don't have to stay, you know," he said, quite unexpectedly.

The implication in this statement, that my departure was in fact the last thing on his mind, was quite explicit, although I knew Holmes would never admit to such a thing. If he was wont to test my staying power, then I was happy to play along.

"Would you like me to go?" I asked casually. "If you do, then I will leave."

"No, my dear fellow, not at all. But this is hardly the most conducive of environments."

"Oh, I don't know. I feel quite at home here in my old hospital. Actually, I've been offered a position to stay permanently, should I wish to take it."

Holmes turned his head slightly to glance over at me. "Well, well, you must do what you see fit," said he, with a palpable tone of disappointment in his voice

"I said, should I _wish _to take it, not that I will."

"Forgive me, Watson, the inference had escaped me, a measure of how far my powers have deteriorated as a result of my confinement."

"Do not talk such nonsense, Holmes. You have had your appendix removed, not your intelligence. For example," said I, glancing at the patient in the bed over to our left, "I would wager that you could correctly identify the occupations of each and every member of this ward. What about this fellow?"

The task seemed to hold no appeal to him. "He's a stockbroker. Lives in a rented house in Kensington. Has been married twice and has eight children, five from his first marriage. He suffers from gout and has a hernia. He is concerned about the state of his finances, and is having difficulty raising a suitable dowry for his eldest daughter."

I would have been surprised had Holmes not been busily employed in the assessment of the other patients. The depth of his analysis, however, was altogether startling, given that the gentleman in question was laid up in bed with little else about his person than the customary white nightshirt.

"However were you able to deduce all that?" said I, somewhat incredulously.

Holmes gave me a tired look. "Don't look so astounded, Watson. The answer is clear enough."

"I must confess that I am baffled."

"Well, then, I asked him, of course."

I could not contain my laughter. "You _asked_ him? Holmes, that is quite unlike you."

He considered my pronouncement. "Perhaps that is a little inaccurate. Rather, he told me without much prompting at all. He is a most garrulous fellow, when he is awake."

"I see."

His gaze had travelled slightly further down the ward to a bed that was concealed from our view by curtains, which had been drawn around it. From the sudden tightness of his expression, I could tell that something about it was deeply bothering him.

"Holmes?"

He dragged his gaze back to my face. "Yes, Watson?"

"Are you quite all right?"

"I'm still very sore."

"No, I meant about being here."

He pursed his lips and drew in a long breath. "One must accept one's lot. Here I am and here I must stay, although I confess that I am not altogether comfortable in these surroundings." His eyes wandered again down the length of the corridor to the curtained bed. "He died in the night. Went in his sleep."

"Did he?"

"Yes. I didn't realise until I woke up this morning."

"Did you know him?"

Holmes shook his head. "Only from what I have been told. He had a heart condition, apparently. He was a year younger than me."

I was well accustomed to Holmes' fluctuations in mood to be aware of the onset of depression when I saw it. "My dear fellow," said I, seeking to reassure him, "do not read anything sinister into this unfortunate event."

He forced a smile, although I could read in his pale eyes the return of that same anxiety which I had glimpsed several days ago. "Of course not. Needless to say, it is an incontrovertible fact that people do die in hospital."

"But you cannot deny that that probability is more likely, given that there must be something wrong with them to be here in the first place."

"Well, there may be some truth in what you say. Although you must admit that this is not the healthiest place to be, since everyone here is ill."

His attention had returned to his correspondence and the only unopened letter that remained on his lap. He deftly sliced open the envelope and perused the contents.

"Ah, now this has possibilities." He passed it over to me. "A shame that I am incapacitated and therefore unable to accept the case."

The sheet of paper was plain cream in colour, of medium quality with an envelope to match. The writing was in a florid copperplate hand, with many superfluous curls and flourishes. To my mind, it spoke of the writer being somewhat flamboyant and perhaps more than a little pretentious, although the message was ordinary enough.

"'Will call upon you at three on a matter of the utmost importance and urgency'. And unsigned. What do you make of it?"

Holmes snorted. "It tells us nothing. I have yet to be consulted on a case that was neither important nor urgent. I'm thinking of calling my poor practice 'The Last Resort', for such are the affairs that seem to come my way of late. You will also note that that most polite phrase 'if convenient' is omitted. Clearly, my time is of little import."

"Perhaps the writer had other things on his mind."

He snatched the letter from my hand. "Yet he had time enough to commit his problem to paper in such a remarkable style. No, Watson, it speaks of a want of respect. Not that it matters," said he languidly, although I was aware that his gaze had slid in my direction. "For I am in no position to take on any case in my present condition."

"Well, perhaps I could meet with this mysterious writer and take the details for your consideration."

"Oh, my dear fellow, do not put yourself to any trouble on my account."

"It would be a pleasure, Holmes. Now, is there anything I should know about this person before we meet?"

Holmes stared up at the ceiling and gave the matter some consideration. "The writer is a man of leisure, with a fondness for the arts and the money to spend on them. Recently he has been forced to make economies, although only in the most basic of matters. His dress most likely will be sober and conservative, a respectable man about town. Oh, and he is most likely involved in the government in some way."

"However did you deduce all that from this single letter?"

"Surely you drew your own conclusions?"

"Erroneously it seems. For example, how are you able to say that his taste in dress is likely to be conservative? I would have said quite the opposite."

Holmes took the letter and held it up for my inspection. "The train of thought was a logical one. That he is a man of leisure is indicated by his style of handwriting. Who but the leisured classes has the time or inclination to affect such a laborious hand? It also points to his interests, for these curlicues are most artistically done. His financial circumstances are indicated by his choice of paper. Medium-weight, you notice, Watson, where you would expect one who takes such care with his presentation to use a better weight of paper. The nib, however, is a more recent purchase. Run your finger over the words and feel the slight scratches where the nib has marked the paper. Clearly it has not been in use long to wear off the rough edges left from the casting process."

"I confess I had not noticed that."

"Therefore, it is fair to say that he has economised on paper, that most basic of life's necessities, but has not skimped where his writing implements are concerned."

"And his clothing?"

Holmes smiled. "That would relate to his occupation. A certain sobriety in dress is _de rigueur_ in even the lowliest of government positions, although I fancy he may express his artistic nature in his choice of cuff links or watch chain. You will be able to verify that for yourself when you meet the gentleman."

"But how do you know he works in government?"

He took up the envelope and indicated the postmark. "That particular style of cancellation is peculiar to the Whitehall sorting office. And the fact he has not signed it suggests business of a highly confidential nature. Who else but a government official would behave in so unnecessarily a secretive manner?"

He chuckled and rubbed his hands together in that expression of suppressed exultation that I had come to know so well.

"Ah, Watson, this promises to be a little _recherché_. But you must promise me one thing."

"Anything, Holmes. Name it."

"That you will exercise the utmost caution in dealing with this gentleman."

"You think there might be some danger involved?"

I noticed how his jaw had tightened, which, accompanied by the serious look that had come into his eyes, led to be believe that this was indeed his concern.

"I am sure of it. You must not take any steps before consulting me. On that point, I am most insistent."

I must confess that I found his lack of faith in my judgement rather discouraging. That he still could not bring himself to trust me after all this time rankled enough to raise my indignation to fever pitch.

"I believe I can manage, Holmes."

"Of course you can, Watson," said he kindly. "It is these government officials I do not trust. This letter should raise your every warning instinct. Whatever this business is, it is delicate enough to warrant the writer not committing his own name to paper."

Put like that, I was less offended by his remarks and reminded myself that I should be inured to his brusqueness by now. His concern was touching, although I believed misplaced. However, I made my promise as he wished and there we left the matter.

"Oh, I informed your brother of your condition, by the way," said I, changing the subject to more familiar territory.

Holmes gave a mirthless laugh. "He will not come. He has a horror of illness. I do declare that Mycroft would rather cut off his own foot than consult a doctor about his bunions."

"A state of mind that runs in the family, I perceive."

He smiled at the ceiling and I saw that that was the only answer I was to receive on the subject. For all his bravado, my medical eye could see that Holmes was still rather weak and that the trial of his operation still weighed heavily upon his beleaguered constitution.

Accordingly, for the rest of the morning, we sat in affable and mostly silent company, I reading my paper while Holmes occasionally stirred enough to inform me that a particular nurse hailed from the West Country or that a passing doctor had received his medical training in Edinburgh, as evidenced from the style of his shoes.

As the appointed hour of the meeting drew ever nearer, Holmes seemed genuinely dismayed about my imminent departure. His failing strength, however, was not equal to the task of finding good reasons to impede me further, so I took my leave, promising to return with the full details of the affair, and started out for Baker Street without delay.

* * *

_Continued in IV:The Visitor_

_Reviews appreciated greatly and very, very welcome._


	4. IV: The Visitor

_**The Adventure of Ex-President Murillo's Papers**_

**IV: The Visitor**

Barely had I made it back to Baker Street and hurried upstairs to change my clothes than came the clatter of hooves and carriage wheels outside, followed shortly after by the murmur of voices in the hall below. With the hour hand pointing exactly to three, I had to admit that the mysterious writer of the unsigned letter was nothing if not prompt.

I flew down the stairs and tried to appear composed in anticipation of our meeting. When presently the knock came, I had smoothed down my hair, straightened my tie and had managed to force the last of my waistcoat buttons into place. I was as ready as I would ever be, except for the feeling of apprehension that was making my gut tangle itself into a series of complex knots.

The gentleman who presented himself was short, lean, aged in his early fifties and impeccably dressed. His dark frock coat and silk top hat were of the best quality, if unfailingly sober. His hair, like his clothing was dark, well-groomed and tidy without a hair out of place, a state that extended to his finely-trimmed beard and moustache.

The only concession to the nature that had produced so florid a letter was the diamond and ruby tie-pin I noted at his neck and his twisted double-linked watch chain that dangled at his waist. Overall, Holmes could not have made a better description of our guest's appearance than if he had actually met with the man in person.

Both man and clothing spoke volumes of his official position, for he had that air of superiority and ease of command that comes with the authority and power to direct the lives of the multitude.

I also noted that that same air had promptly turned to dismay when he perceived that I was alone.

"I called to see Mr Sherlock Holmes," said he, regarding me with some little disdain.

"I'm afraid Mr Holmes is unavailable at the present time. However, he has instructed me to take down the particulars, and he will give the matter his attention at a more convenient time."

"Convenient, you say." The man tapped his cane impatiently upon the floor. "There is no convenient time, for that precious commodity is not on our side." He glanced over at me. "And you, sir? Your name if you please."

"Dr John Watson. I have had the honour of assisting Mr Holmes in a number of his investigations."

"A medical man, eh? Well, I suppose you are to be trusted, although the last doctor I consulted had the temerity to tell me to cut down on my consumption of wine. What do you say to that, sir?"

"I suppose he had his reasons," I said weakly, not really knowing how to answer such a comment.

"Financial ones, if I am any judge. Now, sir, you are discreet?"

"Yes, of course."

"Excellent. In that case, I am compelled to rely upon you to convey this matter to the attention of Mr Holmes without delay."

He did not wait for me to offer him a seat, but perched himself squarely on the sofa. I followed his example and settled in my fireside chair to await his instructions.

"You will no doubt have heard of the former President of San Pedro, Don Juan Murillo?"

Regular readers of my accounts will know that Holmes and I had the dubious honour of meeting the man in question during the affair of Wisteria Lodge. At the date of this meeting, however, these events lay in the future, and I knew only of Murillo what little I had read in the papers.

"Wasn't he known as the 'Tiger of San Pedro'?"

My reply was met with a knowing snort.

"That fact should tell you all you need to know of the man. His crimes were infamous and brutal. He ruled with the rod and lash of a tyrant until he was finally ousted in a popular uprising. As you may have read, the man and his family vanished, and speculation continues to this day as to their fates. Such is readily known."

My distinguished visitor took a moment to clear his throat and I perceived that we were heading into more delicate territory.

"What is less well known is that Murillo operated a system of intelligence that was quite unparalleled at the time. He had an open purse for those with secrets to sell. Thus, those who he could not eliminate were subject to blackmail. You will understand when I say that Murillo's files were extensive and comprehensive. His range extended far beyond the borders of San Pedro."

"To these shores?" I ventured, when he hesitated.

"In certain cases, where the individual could prove beneficial to his interests, then yes. Understandably, on the news of his downfall, certain parties became concerned about the contents of these files falling into the wrong hands. Discreet inquiries were made at the time to no avail. All we could hope was that those secrets had been destroyed when the palace was put to the torch. The people of San Pedro wished to erase the memory of their former president from their country forever."

"I take it therefore that something has occurred to make you believe that those files were not destroyed?"

My visitor sat back abruptly in his seat. "Oh, we have known for some time that they were not. In fact, they came into our possession some eight months ago."

I felt my jaw grow slack and it was with effort that I tried to retain my sense of dignity about the affair.

"It seems," my visitor went on, "that they were smuggled from the palace on the eve of the uprising. Before this person could capitalise on his findings, he died and the files remained buried. Then, a little over a year ago, they came to light again quite by chance. Fortunately for us, we were able to secure them discreetly for a not inconsiderable sum. A certain department of the government was given the care of the files and they have remained in their custody ever since."

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask what interest the files of an ousted dictator could hold for this nameless government department, but I thought better of it. I was already privy to sensitive information and did not wish to appear too inquisitive, being mindful of Holmes' warning about exercising caution around this gentleman.

"Thus was the situation until two nights ago," said my visitor, his expression growing ever darker. "Then it was discovered that the files in their entirety had been stolen."

"Good heavens," said I. "Were the police informed?"

"Certainly not! Useful they may be at tracking down footpads and street villains, but a crime like this requires…" He cleared his throat again to make his point emphatic. "Well, it requires a delicate touch. You do understand what I am trying to say, Doctor?"

"By all means. That is why you require the services of Mr Holmes."

"Precisely. He has been of some use to us before in other '_delicate'_ matters, and so it is most natural that to him we turn again."

I silently rued the hand of fate that had rendered my friend unfit to handle such a case. As much as I knew it would appeal to him greatly, part of me feared his reaction, knowing that he would attempt to rise from his hospital bed to accomplish the feat himself and thereby endanger his own health into the bargain.

"Well, sir," said I, "I will do as you ask and lay the business before him, but I am bound to say that he is unlikely to be able to accommodate your request."

"But he must!" exclaimed the man. "This affair will not require a great deal of effort on his part. The thief is known to us."

"How so?"

"The nature of the theft is such that it could only have been perpetrated by a member of the department, and then by only one person. He is a traitor, Doctor, who means to pass these files onto his superiors, who will then use them to plunge Europe into such a calamity that hundreds of thousands would surely die in the wars that must inevitably follow. Once it is known that we commanded the papers of Ex-President Murillo, all would turn their faces from us."

"But if you know the identity of the thief," said I, "then why do you require the services of Mr Holmes?"

"The papers must be retrieved, but an open scandal would have much the same effect as if this devil had managed to smuggle them from the country. It suits us to allow him to continue for the time being, in ignorance of our knowledge of his crime, so that we shall be able to manipulate him into supplying false information to his superiors in the future. Therefore, the papers must be stolen from him to appear as some chance robbery rather than becoming the subject of an official investigation."

I could grasp the nature of what he was saying and the importance of the task at hand, but still those warning bells rang out in the back of my mind. Something – I could not define quite what – did not ring true about this tale of intrigue and plot.

"Forgive me for asking," said I, "but surely you must have people who could perform this deed for you without having to resort to outside parties?"

"In that, you are most accurate. This has been considered, but rejected. To begin with, we would prefer as few people to know about this business as possible. Also, should by some misfortune, the thief be caught with his hand in the safe as it were, then there must be no connection to the government, or the end result will be the same."

I could hardly believe my ears at this pronouncement.

"So, you expect us to risk life and reputation to steal something on your behalf, of which you will deny all culpability should we be detained in the very act of theft?"

My visitor sniffed a little self-importantly. "I'm afraid that those are my conditions, Doctor. At a later date, we may be able to intervene to commute a sentence of hard labour to more affable terms of imprisonment, but for the present time, our hands would be tied. I'm sure," he added, a touch censoriously, "that Mr Holmes would understand."

"I'm sure he would," I murmured. "All the same, it is a terrible risk."

"What is the life of one man compared to the many hundreds of thousands who will perish should our ownership of these files become public knowledge? Are you loyal to Queen and country, Doctor?"

"I should hope that is beyond doubt. I served as an army surgeon and was wounded while on active service."

"Then you of all people know the horrors of war and the terrible cost it extracts. Answer me this – had you known of some way of averting that conflict, would you not have seized the opportunity with both hands?"

"Well, of course."

He gave a grunt of satisfaction and rose to his feet. "In that case, we need say no more on the subject."

From his pocket he drew a sheet of paper, which he passed to me. A plan of a room was drawn upon it, which the legend informed me was to be found at a house called Beechcroft in Blackheath.

"The files are currently locked in a safe in the study of the villain's house, here behind a picture of a seascape," said he, jabbing a gloved finger at the plan. "They are presented in a series of buff folders, tied together with a length of blue ribbon. They are quite unmistakeable. If there is any doubt, however, empty the contents of the safe. Nothing must be left behind."

"I understand. How long do we have?"

"Two nights. On the third day, they will be conveyed to a ship that will arrive with the express intention of carrying away the papers. Should that happen, all will be lost."

"But if you know this, why not intercept the files in the Channel?"

"To lay hands upon their frigate would be construed as an act of war. No, sir. That must be avoided at all costs."

He sighed in a somewhat vexed manner and fixed me with a stern stare.

"Tomorrow night, we know that the house will be empty, since its owner must attend a state function. That would seem to be the ideal time for such an enterprise. If you are successful, bring the papers without delay at any time of the day or night to my club, Cloades. The doorman, Collins, is my trusted employee and will take personal responsibility for their safe delivery into my hands. Is this quite clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent. Then it only remains for me to wish you every success. Your country is depending on you, never doubt that."

With that parting shot that placed the fate of many innocent souls squarely on my shoulders, he gathered up his possessions and made for the door. However, I could not allow him to leave without touching on the one subject he had omitted to mention.

"What is your name, sir?" I asked. "Mr Holmes will need to know."

A look of deep suspicion flashed in the gentleman's eyes. "Why is that important?"

"Considering the risks taken on our part, it seems a very little thing to ask."

I had perhaps overplayed my hand. The door was shut again and my visitor returned to the centre of the room, where he regarded me with no little measure of calculated thunder in his expression. For a brief moment, I thought he would decry me as a traitor on the spot and have me hauled away to some rank dungeon for my impertinence.

Then, his countenance softened and he nodded.

"Very well, since you insist. I am Sir Ernest Entwhistle."

I had to confess that the name meant nothing to me.

"My uncle, I believe, would be more familiar to you. He is Lord Lewis."

Again, I had that uncomfortable feeling of awe at hearing the name of this illustrious gentleman. I have always admired in Holmes his ability not to show express amazement at the parade of important personages through our door. I can only attribute it to the sort of privileged upbringing that brings with it an ease of movement in such exalted circles.

For my own part, however, I am always unfailingly impressed, which seems to annoy Holmes no end. That my astonishment now did not earn his familiar look of disapproval only served to remind me how keenly I felt his absence and how thankful I was that he would live to scowl at me another day.

"Lord Lewis of the Foreign Office?" I echoed.

"That is quite correct. It is on his instructions that I am here today."

I made to reply, but he held up a warning hand, his gloved palm forcing me into silence to hear what he had to say.

"It is said that to give a man one's name is to allow him to work evil with it. Understand this, Doctor, that while I appreciate and pander to your estimable colleague's whim in this respect, should either of you attempt to implicate myself in this affair, then most severe consequences will follow."

"Yes, I understand."

"_Most_ severe, whatever the outcome of this affair," he repeated with emphasis.

All I could do was to nod.

"Then our business, I think, is concluded. Godspeed, Doctor."

This time, depart he did, leaving me with a mind ablaze and trembling hands. A stiff shot of brandy did wonders for my rattled nerves, if little for my mental state. What to do, that was the question. The security of the state was threatened and the lives of many hung in the balance. I had a duty to my country and fellow citizens, of that there was no doubt.

On the other side of the scale was my duty to my friend. He had taken such cases before and I knew was not averse to a little burglary if the cause was noble enough. Clearly there could be no better cause than this, and yet still my hand was stayed.

The moment I told him, I knew he would be up from his hospital bed, demanding his freedom. The few days that had passed since his operation were hardly time enough for his scars to heal or for his beleaguered constitution to have recovered. Many a man has rushed to his death before his allotted time in the misguided notion that the mind may override any weakness of the body.

It would not be unfair to say that I feared for Holmes as much as I feared for my country. However much truth there was in what Sir Ernest had said, it was hard indeed to know that this day's dealings could end in security for many and personal tragedy for one.

With these thoughts in my consciousness, I will allow that I delayed my decision long enough so that the hours of patient visiting at the hospital came and went without my stirring from Baker Street. Outside, a light rain was beginning to fall, lacing the window pane with diagonal droplets, blown hither and thither by the rising winds.

Watching the world hurry by, eager to attain the warmth and shelter of the indoors, I was left to reflect that there was nothing to be gained by worrying Holmes today. Another night spent at rest would do him the world of good, I told myself, and perhaps hasten that healing which I was certain my news would undo. Tomorrow would come soon enough.

As it happened, the rest of that day dragged with appalling monotony. I spent a fitful night tossing and turning, and finally admitted defeat by rising at half past seven to take an early breakfast. My appearance somewhat startled Mrs Hudson, who was used to my rather later habits and had been thrown into quandary, for she had neither table laid nor breakfast prepared.

I reassured her of my contentment to wait until she was quite prepared and instead found distraction in the early editions, with their usual mix of murder, personal columns and adverts for patent medicines. In all honesty, however, I could do neither them nor my breakfast justice, so fraught and agitated was my emotional state.

Accordingly, I set out a little after nine for the hospital, my soul in turmoil with a mixture of anticipation and fervent concern. That the night ahead was sure to bring adventure was certain; I could only pray that more serious results would not be forthcoming.

In this heightened state of mind, I entered the ward where Holmes was recuperating, expecting to find him awake and alert, and soon to be chaffing at the bit, enflamed to action by my news.

What I found, however, was much worse.

* * *

_Continued in V: The Choice_

_Reviews very much welcome and appreciated!_


	5. V: The Choice

_**The Adventure of Ex-President Murillo's Papers**_

**V: The Choice**

At the very least, I had expected to find Holmes seated upright in bed, waiting impatiently for my appearance. To my consternation, however, I found both bed and occupant concealed from my sight.

The curtains had been drawn closely around the bed, permitting not a glimpse into the claustrophobic world within. Given his reaction yesterday, I could only guess how Holmes felt about that, if he was feeling anything at all, for those curtains spoke of problems, of complications and, like the poor fellow whose demise had so disturbed him yesterday, of journey's end.

My heart was thudding like a hammer upon the anvil as I approached at a near run and almost collided with someone emerging from between the drapes. The figure was a familiar one, my old medical school colleague, Harwood, and any slim hope I retained of this being anything but good news quickly evaporated at the sight of his grim face.

"Watson, thank goodness you're here," said he.

"What's happened?" I asked, almost dreading to hear his response.

Harwood shook his head. "It's not good. He's developed a localised infection. We must evacuate the pus from the wound as soon as possible if we are to have any chance of stopping the infection from spreading."

"Dear heavens. How long has he been like this?"

"The nurse informed the duty doctor last night. He would have operated then, but Mr Holmes has steadfastly refused. I don't have to tell you that the longer we delay, the worse it will get. Will you speak to him and make him see sense?"

"I can but try," said I.

I did not continue with the inevitable train of thought that Holmes was unlikely to be swayed by any argument I could bring. I had had to forcibly drug him to get him this far; faced with the prospect of further surgery, especially when the last now showed signs of not being as successful as I had promised, I could foresee considerable difficulties in gaining his willing compliance.

With a deep breath to calm my nerves, I drew back the curtains and passed through the small gap I had created. It was with some relief that I found Holmes conscious, though in considerable pain, lying on his good side and facing me as I entered, his arms tightly drawn across his stomach and his knees drawn up as far as his condition would permit.

I pulled the curtains back into place and took the chair at his bedside, all the while being very aware of his close gaze upon me. I settled myself down and regarded him with my most acquired air of medical censure.

From what I had already been told about his condition, there was plenty about which to be concerned. His breathing sounded ragged and his skin had taken on that waxy, sallow appearance of ill-health. Whoever it was that taught a degree of cruelty was necessary in order to be kind had never had to apply that maxim to the sick or dying.

"Well?" said I at last.

"What do you think?" said he, closing his eyes to avoid my reproving stare.

I could not help the smile that came to my face. At least his sense of humour was intact.

"That's not quite what I meant, as well you know, Holmes. I'm told you have an infection."

"That's what they told me too. Some days ago, I was also told that I would be leaving this place in two weeks, but I have no good reason to believe that either."

As I had suspected, his obstinacy was going to prove the greatest stumbling block in his restoration to good health, if that point had not been passed already.

"May I see?"

"No," came his grudging reply.

This I had anticipated and had prepared my answer in advance.

"Well, that I can understand. No doubt you would prefer one of these pretty nurses to tend you instead."

His eyes opened to fix me with a narrow glare. "What is that supposed to mean?"

I shrugged lightly. "Nothing."

"Watson, I have been subjected to indignities untold since I have been here. If you seriously think I am enjoying any part of this, then you are quite, _quite_ mistaken."

I had succeeding in riling him, which was usually enough to allow me to get my own way in any given argument. The misery of his condition had not sufficiently altered his temperament to change that, so, as I had expected, he capitulated rather than allow me to be proved correct.

"Very well," said he, rolling with considerable effort onto his back. "Look if you must."

There is very little I have not encountered in medical terms during the course of my career. My time in the military supplied me with a full range of the horrors and injuries of war, the like of which I hope never to see again on such a barbaric scale.

As much as I hate to admit it, I know that those experiences have inured me to some extent, so that the endless stream of casualties became so many faceless bodies needing my attention, rather than suffering human beings with names and lives and families and sweethearts left behind. If I had given this too much thought at the time, I could never have worked so fast or strived to do my utmost to save as many as I could.

In that state, I could attempt to address the worst of wounds, engaging with the patient on no other level than that his body needed repairing. Only in one particular instance could I not remain quite so detached, however, and that state was always provoked by smell.

I do not have a weak stomach, but there is something about that foul odour of festering wounds and wet decaying flesh that causes some deep sense of revulsion to rise from my innards to result in a grimace on my face that no amount of self-control can prevent. I felt it trying to contort my features now as I peeled back the bandages on Holmes' side and that familiar sickly-sweet smell wafted out to greet me.

The bandage itself was stained with creamy-yellow pus, which had suppurated from between the straining stitches holding the incised skin together. The area around had blushed a deep uneven red and was grossly swollen.

The merest brush of my fingers, confirming that the temperature of the infected flesh was searing to the touch, brought about a sharp contraction of the muscles and a sudden intake of breath from Holmes, adding conviction, if any were needed, to my assessment of the degree of pain he was suffering.

"Your diagnosis, Doctor?" said he.

I shook my head. "I'm sorry, Holmes. This is serious. The pus will have to be drained away before blood poisoning develops. It means another operation."

He let his head drop back on the pillow and shut his eyes.

"_Et tu, Brute_," I heard him breathe between his clenched teeth.

I have often thought that I could have spared myself much trouble over the years if I had allowed myself to be offended more often by these callous remarks of his. However, the better part of my character will not be so easily swayed from my dedication and concern for my mercurial friend, not even by this calculated and hurtful attempt to dissuade me from what I knew to be right.

"That is unworthy of you, Holmes," said I. "I believe I have only ever tried to do what was best for you."

"By bringing me here?" he grunted ungraciously. "Save us all from well-intentioned friends! It seems to me that, like Alexander, I shall soon expire by the help of too many physicians."

I knew it was the pain and fear talking, and did not take the insult personally. Deep down, I also knew that if Holmes had settled on this intractable course of action, then no one would be able to shift him. It would take something subtle to remove the twin obstacles of his stubbornness and apprehension.

"As you wish," said I, redressing the wound.

This time, despite my better nature, I took no great care in the task. If it hurt him, then only good could come from it, I told myself. A little pain now, if it persuaded him to change his mind, would spare him greater anguish to come. He bore it stoically, which gave me no joy and only served to inflame my anger at him all the more, until finally I pulled the sheets back over him and went to gather my things.

"Where are you going?" he asked, his tone tinged with an air of alarm.

"Home," said I. "If you wish to die, then I shall not stop you. But neither shall I sit here by your bedside and wait for the inevitable. That is cruel and unfair, Holmes."

I hoped that I had injected enough vehemence into my tone to convince him of my sincerity in this matter. I was angered by his attitude, that I will not deny, angry enough to want to frighten him into seeing sense. I was wagering that if our friendship meant anything to him, then he must surely stop me before I passed through that curtain and left him to his fate alone.

I was a heartbeat away from completing my threat when he called my name. His voice was stripped of all arrogance and bravado, and the single word sounded as though it had issued from the mouth of the smallest of children. And then, even worse, came his next words of entreaty.

"Don't go."

I have never hated myself as much as I did at that moment. It required all my steel to harden my heart as I turned back to him to demand his submission.

"Will you allow them to operate?"

Still he hesitated.

"Will you allow them to save your life? Holmes, I want an answer."

"The one I dread to give," said he, offering a faint smile. "Very well, Watson. I am powerless to resist. You win."

"This isn't about anyone winning or losing," I berated him. "This is about you needing treatment and being too pig-headed to accept good advice."

I put my head through the gap in the curtains and informed the nurse that the operation could proceed. She hurried away to inform Harwood, and I returned to Holmes, trying my level best not to look him in the eye.

"Is it as serious as they say?" he asked.

"It didn't look particularly pretty."

"I suspected as much when I saw you flinch. You really should work on your reactions, Watson. It's hardly reassuring when one's physician is seized by personal disgust when conducting an examination."

I glanced up to find him smiling and could not help but share in this small, precious moment of amusement. It was all too brief, however, for the severity of the situation brought us soon back to more sober thoughts.

"Do not be too concerned," I sought to reassure him. "A surgical evacuation is standard procedure in such cases."

He nodded, his gaze drifting away to the curtained wall that separated him from the rest of the ward. I could not read his thoughts, for his composure was absolute, as though acceptance of his fate had forced upon him a sense of serenity in the face of the unknown.

"Should anything happen," he began.

"Holmes, these thoughts are unnecessarily morbid."

He held up his hand. "Very well, but in case it does, my will is in the drawer of my desk."

"I refuse to listen to this."

"It was drafted long before our alliance and I never took the time to change it, so I will say now that you may take whatever you wish from our rooms. Mycroft will not object."

"Stop this nonsense now!" I protested vigorously. "I don't want your things. I want you to be well, nothing more."

"My papers, the files, the case notes, have whatever you wish," he went on. "And you have my unreserved permission to publish whichever of my cases you see fit. Well, perhaps not the one about the prestidigitator's python. That was a little too sensational for publication."

Any distress this conversation was provoking within me was promptly superseded by a burning sense of curiosity. "The prestidigitator's python? I don't remember that."

"Before your time. I do declare you would have been quite scandalised. All the same, I should have liked to enlighten you as to the particulars if only to see your expression."

There was that about his last statement which spoke to me of the depth of his conviction that his end was near. This, above all things, has always been the hardest aspect of my occupation. I have seen men cower in the face of death; others who have remained resolute to the end. I have listened to their fears, been confessor to their sins and privy to their regrets.

One's response must be instinctual, for is the one province where study or learned debate will never provide adequate preparation. In such cases, all one can do is speak from the heart.

"And you shall, my dear fellow, for you must promise me that you will tell me this most scandalous story in all its gory detail when you've recovered. Will you?"

He held my gaze long enough for me to see the battle between certainty and the need to believe fought out in his pained grey eyes.

In the end, for my comfort more than his as I suspected, he obliged me with a weary nod.

"Yes, Watson, I promise," said he at last.

He sighed and shifted slightly to better accommodate his aching side. "And while we're on the subject of cases, what of our mysterious client? I notice you have been entirely reticent upon the matter."

In all honesty, it had quite slipped from my mind. I had come here in the certainty that I would have to restrain Holmes to prevent him from undertaking the business. As weak as he was, I was not altogether sure that he would not still try some foolishness if I told him all the details.

All the same, a lie sounds more convincing when based on something of the truth, and I determined to give Holmes a watered-down version of events.

"Nothing too exciting," said I. "A case of theft."

Immediately I knew I had done wrong, for I saw that light of old come to his eyes.

"Pray do tell me more."

"Some papers have gone missing and this gentleman wants them back."

"This gentleman being our government official, who refused to sign his name. What sort of papers?"

"Personal," I lied.

"He is being blackmailed?"

I was rapidly finding myself running out of places to hide from his enquiries. "Holmes, does it matter? You are in no fit state to take this case, whatever his problem."

His eyes narrowed a fraction. "Watson, you are being evasive."

"And you are being a nuisance. I told him you were unable to aid him and that is all there is to say on the matter."

"I see."

As much as I hoped that would be an end of the business, I could tell from his expression that he was still giving my words serious consideration.

"Will you accept some words of advice?" said he finally.

"May I adopt your own strategy and completely ignore them?"

"If you wish, although judging from my current condition, I am a poor example for any man to follow. That aside, I wish only to observe that it is best never to put oneself in any man's power, whether for good or evil."

"Wise words. Are you finished?"

"I will only add that should I be beyond your reach when the time comes, then remember to pay my compliments to my brother. He is a confidante of the first order, as long as you tell him nothing of a deeply personal nature, for he is a fearful gossip."

It was to my considerable relief that this conversation was brought to an abrupt end by the ward sister, who drew back the curtains and informed us that the surgeon was waiting. It struck me that the sooner it was done now, the better for both of us. All the same, I sensed the subtle shift in Holmes' mood and the cracking of the thin façade he had mounted against the world.

I helped him up in preparation for his transfer to the waiting stretcher and took a moment to whisper a final word of consolation into his ear.

"You survived the Falls, Holmes. Compared to that, this is nothing."

He gave a soft grunt, whether of sardonic humour or weary reconciliation to his fate, I could not tell.

"The difference, Watson, is that Moriarty could be fought with fists and intelligence." He offered me a thin smile. "Go, my dear friend. Do not stay."

"But I will."

"I would infinitely prefer it if you did not. Knowing you are there will give me less impetus to pull myself from my diseased stupor than if I am mindful that I needs must be wakeful if I am not to miss your next visit."

Nevertheless, stay I did, long enough to accompany him as far as I could and thenceforth to linger until the surgery was complete and I was assured of its success. The enforced inactivity of that time caused my mind to dwell on my other pressing problem, concerning the retrieval of ex-President Murillo's papers.

Certainly, something needed to be done, if not by Holmes, then by myself, the only person in the world outside Sir Ernest's circle of confidence to be entrusted with the weighty task. The more I gave it thought, the more it seemed that I could no other than attempt to tackle the business on my own, for there was more at stake here than the mere honour of Her Majesty's government. Countless lives depended not only on my willingness to comply, but more surely on my success in the venture.

The bare bones of the case, stripped of all extraneous detail, were simple enough. Effect a house-breaking, rob a safe and fly from the scene before anyone could be alerted. Elementary, except that I had no expertise in these fields. I was clearly going to need some assistance.

This thought troubled me during my vigil at Holmes' side as he slept off the effects of anaesthesia and surgery. I stayed as long as could during those crucial hours when body and soul can easily be separated by the trauma of the ordeal. Then, finally, nearing lunchtime, I forced myself to leave and cut a forlorn figure as I headed back to Baker Street, judging myself to be the most burdened man in the world.

As it happened, the solution to my problem was seated on our doorstep. I espied the spry figure of Wiggins as I turned the corner and my thoughts strayed to what business had brought him to our door alone, without the presence of the other Irregulars.

"Well, it's Mr 'Olmes, Doctor," said he, when I questioned him. "I'd 'eard he was dicky."

"Yes, he has been unwell. He's in hospital at the moment."

"I'm right sorry to 'ear that, I am. Them's that comes out of there as good as they went in are few and far between."

"We are hopeful for his recovery," I said, hoping I sounded more convincing than in fact I felt.

The lad replaced his cap and started to back away. "Well, the best of British luck to 'im. Tell Mr 'Olmes I said that."

"Yes, I will. Thank you."

Before he could dash away, another thought struck me.

"Wiggins, how did you know he was ill?"

"I thought everyone knew," said he. "Lest ways, that's the word on the street."

The implication of that was worrying indeed. I had been monitoring the papers closely for any mention of Holmes' plight and thus far had been pleased to find that he had been overlooked. The criminal underworld, however, was another matter. I knew all too well that certain elements desired his demise and my concern now was that they should try something when he was at his most vulnerable.

"Does this word say where he is?"

"Some 'ospital up in the nobby end o'town," came the boy's blithe reply.

"Wiggins, if anyone asks, don't dissuade them from that opinion."

"What?" said he, his expression a picture of perplexed bewilderment.

"I mean, don't tell them that he isn't at a…"

"A nobby 'ospital," he finished for me. "I'll see to it, Doctor. You think someone might try somethin'?"

"Well, they might."

"Righto, Doctor. You can count on me."

"Yes, thank you. Oh, and Wiggins, there is something else. If I wanted to break into a house and rob a safe, to whom should I turn?"

It was a very long shot indeed, and it elicited an uproarious response from our young friend.

"What, you thinkin' of taking up burglary?"

I put a finger to my lips to silence his outburst.

"Yes, but in the noblest of causes. A gentleman came to Mr Holmes about a very delicate case and since he cannot take the case –"

"You've been left 'olding the baby, as it were."

Wiggins screwed up his brow and gave the matter serious consideration.

"Fingers Hancock," he said at last. "Yeah, that's your man. Mr 'Olmes did 'im a turn once and I know he's good at keepin' his mouth shut, as long as he gets his drinkin' money. He's a proper gent burglar, he is, Doctor. You'll be all right with 'im."

"Well, then Mr Hancock it is. Could you ask him to call round as soon as possible?"

"Will do."

"Just one thing. Why is he called 'Fingers'?"

The boy grinned. "On account of how he lost a few early on when he weren't so good at his profession. Will that be all?"

I took several coins from my pocket and passed them across.

"Yes, Wiggins. And thank you once again."

"My pleasure."

He scampered away and vanished into the milling throng, leaving me to prepare for Mr Hancock's visit and what promised to be an eventful evening ahead.

* * *

_Continued in VI: The Good Cause_

_Reviews gratefully received and always welcome!_


	6. VI: The Good Cause

_**The Adventure of Ex-President Murillo's Papers**_

**VI: The Good Cause**

It is a strange turn of fate that finds a hitherto law-abiding citizen about to embark on a series of crimes that under normal circumstances would be heinous to his good conscience. Quite what my former patients would have said if they could have seen their trusted physician on the verge of house-breaking and robbery, I did not like to think.

I will not pretend, however, that I have not done worse things in the service of my country. The only difference between then and now is the difference between war and peace. Then I had been engaged in a conflict; now I sought to prevent one. In the pursuit of such a good cause, who may speak with any certainty of the lengths to which they will not go?

Despite this knowledge, I was not altogether happy at the prospect of the night's work which lay ahead. I have always expressed my disapproval at Holmes' readiness to take the law into his own hands and will ever maintain that position.

Yet here I was about to break faith with my own principles. Undoubtedly, Holmes would have found great amusement in my predicament. My one abiding regret was that I had been unable to tell him.

I do stress unable, for I had been all willingness at the time. After an afternoon of preparation and meeting with the affable Mr Jim Hancock, whose assistance I had secured with very little argument and the promise of a ten pound note, my nerve had quite started to fail me. I had returned to the hospital in the hope of seeking Holmes' opinion and blessing on my venture only to find his bed empty.

My initial astonishment had turned to utter dismay when the matron informed me that his condition had deteriorated considerably after my departure. Delirium and a high fever had been the chief of his symptoms, leading the attending physician, my old colleague, Harwood, to diagnose the onset of hospital fever.

Fearing the risk of infection to the other patients, Holmes had been duly removed to an isolation ward. Beyond those doors into the subdued light of the interior I could not venture. The risk to all concerned was too great.

Not that I expected to find anything different to what I knew isolation involved. Rows of beds, each with their inmates suffering from all manner of devastating and infectious illnesses, separated by sheets sprayed with carbolic in an attempt to fight the further spread of disease.

The truth of it was that few patients left that ward alive. I prayed Holmes would not fall into that category, although I was all too aware that the odds were not on his side. Weak from the trauma of repeated surgery and blood loss, his health was already under assault from the infection that had impeded the healing process. Another, deadlier infection like this was liable to be more than his beleaguered system could take.

As much as it pained me to admit it, I did not hold out much hope for his recovery. Rarely have I seen so much go wrong with a patient so quickly. My fine promises were swiftly turning to dust and Holmes, as ever, had been justified in his fears of hospitalisation.

Typical of him really; even in my field of expertise, he had to prove me wrong. This time, however, I feared it would be the death of him. Who would I have to blame then but myself?

Unable to offer him any practical assistance, I had set my sights on my allotted task. For that reason, I now found myself rattling across the Thames in a hansom cab with a self-confessed burglar turned baker, who was intent on telling me his life story.

From what little I actually heard, it seemed Holmes had caught this fellow red-handed and had made him a deal, that he would not turn him in if Hancock taught him all he knew about safe-cracking. It seemed a tall story, but I had to admit that I was half-inclined to believe it.

"And from that day on," my companion was in the throes of declaring, "I ain't never set a foot wrong again. I owe it all to Mr Holmes."

"Yes," I murmured. "He has that effect on people."

"Now I'm as honest as the day is long," Hancock continued. "With a good occupation and a nice little family too. That means a lot to a man. You married, Doctor?"

I had no particular interest in this conversation, but I could hardly ignore the man, not possessing Holmes' facility for blatant rudeness in such matters.

"I was."

"A widower, eh? Well, I'm sorry to hear of your loss. If my Annie passed away, I don't know what I do and that's the honest truth."

There was sincerity about that statement that left me in no doubt as to the veracity of his words. Often I do not agree with Holmes' lackadaisical approach to the official avenues of justice, but in this instance he had made a difference to this man's life that a spell in prison would not have produced.

Content in his current occupation, Hancock seemed the unlikeliest person in the world to have followed a previous career as a burglar. His frame was somewhat larger than I had expected for one used to heaving himself in and out of open windows, and his face had that hearty glow that comes from a jolly spirit and the liberal application of alcohol.

Whatever crimes were in his past, now he appeared the very essence of respectability. Only the bag that contained certain of his tools gave any indication as to his former trade. I was aware that I was calling upon the goodwill he bore my failing friend and was grateful for his assistance.

"Nothing's too much trouble for Mr Holmes," said he when I put this to him. "I was right sorry to hear that he was poorly. Is he for the chop, d'you think?"

I inwardly winced at the distinct possibility of that happening.

"I hope not. He is seriously ill though."

Hancock tutted and shook his head. "Well, you can tell him that me and wife'll be praying for him. There's not many like him."

"No, there aren't."

"All I can say is that it's good of you, Doctor, to be taking on this business for him. The man's a traitor, you say?"

Perhaps unwisely, I had confided some of the more extraneous details of the affair to Hancock to ensure his assistance. At the mention of service to his country, he had put his initial reluctance aside, and had declared that there was nothing worse than a traitor. It was his pleasure to come out of retirement to assist, he had declared, and was even happier when I promised to cover his expenses for the evening.

"Yes," said I. "He has stolen government papers."

"And they can't arrest him in case he destroys them," said Hancock, content to formulate his own theories about the affair. "Crafty blighter. If me and the lads got our hands on him, we'd show him a thing or two."

"Kind of you to offer, but this business must be kept a secret, Mr Hancock."

"Mum's the word," he said with a toothy grin. "I tell you what though, Doctor, between you, me and the gate post, this brings back happy memories of the old days."

"It does?"

"It was never the money with me, you understand," he mused. "No, it was the thrill of it. The hours were good too. Baking's all right, but it lacks something. Not that it's much different, mind. When you work dough, it's a bit like working a safe. You get the feel of it when it's just right. It's instinctual."

"So I understand."

"That's why they called me Fingers, you see, on account of how they said it was as though I could almost see through them, if you get my meaning."

"I thought it was because of your loss?"

He held up his hands and examined them ruefully. Of the left, he was missing the smallest finger and the upper portion of his thumb. On the right, the last two fingers had been reduced to stumps.

"I got that through messing about with explosives," said he. "Never touched them again after that. Funny thing was, it never slowed me down none. I'm just as good with these as I ever was with a full set."

"I'm glad to hear it."

With a sigh of satisfaction, he rubbed his hands together in a manner that reminded me of Holmes in pursuit of an investigation. I could only imagine that the elation produced by both was very similar.

"Now, Doctor, this house. Do they have dogs?"

"I don't know."

"Ah, well, we'll find out soon enough. How many servants?"

"I don't know that either, I'm afraid."

He gave me a somewhat bemused look.

"If you don't mind me saying, Doctor, you don't know much. You've not done this before, have you?"

"I try not to make a habit of it."

Shrugging my shortcomings aside, the fellow sniffed a little deprecatingly.

"Well, I dare say we'll manage right enough. You stick with me and I'll see you all right. You do know the name of the house, I take it?"

"Beechcroft. It's to the west of Blackheath."

"Good. Then we'll get out a mile or two away and walk the rest. Better that the cabman doesn't know our destination."

So it was, under the sound advice of my partner-in-crime, that we were set down outside a rowdy tavern and in the pouring rain began the walk to Beechcroft. The conditions and the late hour worked in our favour, for few other hardy souls had dared to venture out on such an inclement night as this.

Beyond the confines of the narrow lanes, the streets became broader, bordered on both sides by sizable dwellings. Lights shone from upper floors and shadows moved across blinds, whilst the duller glow from basements told of those still labouring while their masters and mistresses took their evening leisure.

A little further on, we began to pass the first of the substantial villas, set back from the road behind sturdy walls and gates. Beechcroft itself sat in considerable grounds and our impromptu entrance over a privet hedge found us knee-high in a well-tended flower bed.

With my feet buried deep in the yielding earth, I ruefully reflected that the evidence I was about to leave behind of my presence in terms of footprints would not take any great practitioner in the art of observation to detect. Holmes would no doubt be very critical of my methods, and I fervently hoped that I would be given a chance to tell him of this adventure, if only to hear him laugh at my poor efforts on his behalf.

For the time being, however, I was entirely reliant on the skills of my companion. I followed him through the shadows towards the grey bulk of the house with its few illuminated windows, thanking a merciful providence that we had not encountered a canine presence about the premises.

Behind a substantial oak tree, we paused and took stock of our surroundings.

It was not difficult to identify the study. The master of the house was evidently from home, exactly as I had been informed, for the butler was making free with the spirits as he refilled the decanters on the sideboard. What little remained in the bottles when the task was completed was emptied into a glass and promptly downed.

Clearly a conscientious man, he performed this duty with due care and diligence in regard to every bottle until finally, with the room prepared for the master's return, he extinguished the gaslight and departed. We followed his progress through the rest of the rooms as he dimmed the lights until finally the house stood in darkness.

With our moment at hand, we hurried across the expanse of lawn and came to rest by the study windows. The lock presented Hancock with very little difficulty, and soon enough we were inside.

I had memorised the plan Entwhistle had given me, so that I was able immediately to point out the seascape on the far wall behind which the safe was hidden. Sure enough, with the picture removed, we were faced with a bulky metal door set into the wall.

Hancock let out a low whistle of appreciation.

"I've heard about these," said he in a hushed voice, "but this is first time I've ever seen one in the flesh, as it were. It's an artful thing, too. Hidden behind that picture, you'd never know it was there. Secrecy is its strength, you see, because it's not big, although you'd have to knock half this wall down to get it out and carry it off."

"But do you think you can open it?" I asked.

"Think?" said he, somewhat indignantly. "I know I can! Oh, yes, this'll be a pleasure."

He rummaged around in his bag and produced a series of thin metal picks, fashioned into twisted shapes. He set about his task with the quiet enthusiasm of a professional, leaving me to keep an anxious watch on door and window in anticipation of discovery. Only once did we hear footsteps pass by the study; they did not stop, however, and with my heart in my mouth, I nodded to Hancock that it was safe to continue.

After what seemed an eternity, I heard him let out a grunt of satisfaction and I turned to see that the door of the safe was now open. I hurried over, almost colliding with a chair in my haste, and peered inside.

What little light was offered by the moonlight soon showed me the files which I sought. Hidden under a raft of other documents were the buff folders, neatly tied with a length of blue ribbon, exactly as described.

I took them out and held them in my shaking hands. These then were the legendary papers of ex-President Murillo of infamous memory.

I must confess that despite the precariousness of our situation, my curiosity got the better of me. I turned back the cover of the uttermost file and tried to make out the words. Between the darkness and the almost illegible scrawl, I had little success. Not so my companion, who had in his hand a slim case, the contents of which he was staring at admiringly.

"Now would you look at that," said he, offering the case for my inspection.

Diamonds and rubies winked back at me from their fantastical necklace setting.

"I bet he got that from the proceeds of betraying good people like you and me, Doctor."

"I dare say. All the same, I have what we came for. Put it back."

He regarded me obstinately for a moment, and I began to fear that he was about to raise an objection. I was heartily glad when he abruptly snapped the case shut and thrust it back into the safe. Again, I kept my vigil while he set about locking it, this time with a greater ease and speed than in opening it. The painting was returned to its position and all was left exactly as we had found it.

Ten minutes later, we were marching at a brisk pace along the road back to Blackheath. Some little way along, we had the good fortune to find a passing cab. The expedition had raised my companion's spirits considerably, for the rest of the journey passed with his wearing the most blissful and contented expression that I have ever seen on man's face.

This beneficial effect continued long after we had crossed the Thames and pulled up at his allotted point of departure, for when I offered him the money I had promised, he declined effusively.

"But it is what we have agreed," said I. "Take it. You have earned it."

He held up his hands in absolute refusal.

"No, Doctor. It was my pleasure. I don't need no payment for doing what's right by my country. If I've saved the lives of many a young lad like my little 'un, then that's all the reward I need. Good night and God bless!"

With that, he retreated into the shadows and I was left to complete the rest of my task by telling the cabman to take me directly to The Cloades Club. At near on two o'clock, I wondered what explanation I should give as to my intrusion at such an hour. I briefly toyed with leaving their delivery until the morning, but I knew I would never rest easy with such important papers in my possession.

Accordingly, we arrived at the club and I made my way up the steps. Before I reached the door, it was opened by a dour middle-aged man in smart red livery enlivened with gold buttons and black velvet trimmings.

"Dr Watson?" said he in a flat, emotionless voice.

I was a little taken aback at being so addressed by a stranger.

"Yes, that is my name. And you are?"

"Collins, sir. I was told by Sir Ernest Entwhistle to expect you."

He held out a white gloved hand in my direction.

"I was instructed to take delivery of a certain item from you, Doctor," said he.

This was entirely in accordance with Entwhistle's directions, and yet, as I duly handed over the folders, the vague sense of disquiet that I had felt at the earlier meeting reasserted itself. I put it down to the importance of the papers I carried, for I could discern no other good reason for my distrust of the situation.

My part in the affair now complete, I felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. The doorman retreated inside, the door closed and I was left outside in the cold and damp night air, feeling tired beyond belief.

After a long search to find a cab, it was all I could do to keep my eyes open on the drive back to Baker Street. Then, with tremendous weariness, I dragged myself up to my bed, where I promptly fell into a deep sleep.

The next time my eyes opened it was to discover that it was after eleven in the morning. By the time I roused myself, Mrs Hudson had prepared a late breakfast and I settled down to read my correspondence. There was no news from the hospital, which was some little comfort, as had Holmes' condition deteriorated further, I should surely have heard of it.

In the midst of such thoughts, Mrs Hudson entered the room and informed me that Inspector Lestrade was waiting downstairs. I asked her to show him up and very shortly he appeared, his countenance wearing that world-weary expression I knew of old that spoke of trying times and a difficult case.

"Mr Holmes in?" he asked, his tone conveying his lack of expectation in that regard.

"No, I'm afraid he's unwell."

"So the rumours were true. I told them, but they wouldn't believe me. Ah, well, a wasted journey."

He sighed heavily and slumped down into the nearest chair.

"What's wrong with him then?" he asked.

"Initially appendicitis, but now he's suffering from a secondary infection."

"He's not going to die, is he?"

"I don't know," I replied in all honesty.

"If he's that bad, I'd have thought you'd be treating him, Doctor."

His gaze had shifted to the table and the breakfast things that still lay before me. I took his meaning and tried to explain away my tardiness.

"I had a late night. A patient with a critical illness."

"Oh, I thought you'd sold your practice."

It was at that moment that I realised I did not have an alibi for the previous evening. Should the business ever return to haunt me, I might find myself being pressed for my movements with no adequate explanation to offer. As it was, I had already proved myself to be a poor liar even in the face of a polite inquiry.

"Well, yes, but this was one of my old patients who has yet to settle to the new man," said I, hoping my voice conveyed enough sincerity to be convincing. "As for Holmes, he's in an isolation ward. I'll be calling in to see how he's faring later, but there's not much I can do for him."

Lestrade took a moment to digest this information.

"I don't suppose," he said at last, "there's any chance of Mr Holmes being well enough in the next few hours or so to give his opinion on a problem that came up last night?"

"No. He's delirious. They think it's hospital fever."

This news brought a frown to the Inspector's face.

"I don't mind telling you, Doctor, that this couldn't have happened at a worse time. It's a bad business."

"The reason why you're here, you mean?"

He nodded stiffly. "I was roused from my bed in the small hours and I've been up ever since."

That would account for his tired demeanour, I thought. In such circumstances, a little refreshment is always welcome.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" I offered.

"No, thank you. A brandy wouldn't go amiss though."

I duly obliged while he continued with his story.

"All the way over to Blackheath I had to go," said he. "Some government type had his house burgled and some important papers have gone missing, not to mention his wife's diamond and ruby necklace."

The glass slipped from my hand and thudded onto the floor, splattering my trouser legs with brandy.

"Careful, Doctor," said Lestrade.

"Sorry, clumsy of me," I mumbled. "Let me get you another."

Somehow I managed to keep my hands still enough to fill another glass. Lestrade downed it and let out an appreciative sigh.

"Ah, that hits the spot," said he, smacking his lips. "I don't suppose there's any more where that came from?"

"Yes, of course. Help yourself."

I watched him go over the sideboard, willing him to make haste. My impatience, however, got the better of me and I put to him the question I was desperate to know.

"A government type, you say?"

Lestrade grunted. "Lord Lewis of the Foreign Office. It was his house."

His glass filled, he returned and took a seat.

"To tell you the truth, Doctor, I don't know what all the fuss is about. If these papers were so important, what's he doing with them at home?"

I offered a weak smile, hoping I was not betraying any outward sign of my inward despair. It was inconceivable that Lord Lewis was a traitor. That left only one explanation – that I had been duped into unintentionally aiding a foreign power in the theft of sensitive state papers.

"Anyway, he's making a big song and dance about it. Insisted on my coming here to enlist Mr Holmes' help on the case, he did. What I am to tell him now?"

I had to cough to bring a little moisture back into my mouth before speaking.

"Do you have any suspects, Lestrade?"

His eyes narrowed in thought. "We know there were two of them, because we found their footprints. I don't know who the other fellow is, but I'm pretty sure I recognise the handiwork of the safe-cracker."

"Jim Hancock," I murmured miserably.

Lestrade let out a hearty laugh. "What? Old 'Fingers' Hancock? Bless you, Doctor, no, not him. He's been out of the game for years. Although," he added thoughtfully, "I might pay him a visit to see what he's been up to lately."

Not content with having lied about my alibi, I had hammered another nail into the coffin of my guilt by giving Lestrade the name of my accomplice. At this rate, I might just as well hand myself in without further delay.

"Well, I must be going," said Lestrade. "Wish Mr Holmes all the best and tell him that we're all rooting for him down at the Yard. Good day, Doctor."

I murmured my farewells and waited until I heard the door close downstairs. Then, grabbing my coat, I hurried out and wasted no time in hailing a cab.

* * *

_Well, I think it's fair to say that everyone who was nervous about this business has been proved right. Whatever will Watson do now?_

_**Continued in VII: The Friend in Need!**_

_In the meantime, reviews, comments, legal advice for Dr Watson, letters of condolence to Mr Holmes (I'll slip them under the door for him) very welcome and gratefully received!_


	7. VII: The Friend In Need

_**The Adventure of Ex-President Murillo's Papers**_

**VII: The Friend in Need**

It is foul enough that a man may find himself in a position where he has been unknowingly tricked into committing a serious crime. It is another matter entirely to find oneself in such a predicament with only one's own inadequate wits to rely upon.

Had Holmes been there, the solution would have been simple. He would have applied his brains to the business in his usual manner and the problem would have been lifted from my shoulders in no time at all. On reflection, however, had he been there, I would not have been in such a mess in the first place.

For all my good intentions, I was not the detective he was. Putting one's observations of another's talents into practice is infinitely more difficult than it appears.

I was too troubled by the news Lestrade had brought me of my night's work to return to the hospital to spend time waiting for what seemed to be inevitable. In Holmes' absence, I had blundered, seriously. Now I was the one in need of help.

I was not so distressed of mind that I failed to remember Holmes' advice, about what to do in the event of his being unavailable should I find myself in difficulty. How strangely prophetic those sentiments seemed now. At the time I had ascribed it to his sense of foreboding at his enforced stay in hospital; now I was not so certain.

He had talked of wills and forlorn hopes in the manner of a man certain of his own demise. Had he already been feeling the effects of the infection and said nothing because he did not want to cause me further distress? Had he made that promise to tell me of his previous case in the certainty that he would not live to keep it?

The thought that he had done this made me both immeasurably angry and infinitely sad by equal measure. All men must die, but I hated that I had been forced into the role of executioner's accomplice. I had delivered him up, forcibly; now disease, that stealthy and unseen killer, would complete the task.

Until I received news to the contrary, I had to hope I was being precipitate in my fears. In the meantime, as I was powerless to help him, I clearly had to look to myself.

The one positive thing I had taken from our conversation was what to do in the event of trouble. Accordingly, I had driven straight from Baker Street to the Diogenes Club and found to my immense relief that I was in luck.

Mycroft Holmes was indeed present and taking an early lunch. I was eternally grateful that he left his repast to see me and even more so that he was willing to listen to my story. The more I told him, the graver became his expression until finally, with my conclusion, his brow was a furrowed as a newly-ploughed field.

"Dear me," said he, clearing his throat uneasily. "What a mess, Doctor, what a mess."

I was forced to agree.

"Well, the good news is that the old punishment of hanging, drawing and quartering for traitors was removed from the statute books some twenty years ago, so that should be of some small comfort to you."

"It isn't as serious as that, surely?" said I, somewhat aghast at his pronouncement. Until he had said it, the enormity of my deed had not fully struck me. I had committed theft, yes, but treason?

Mycroft Holmes nodded gravely. "I'm afraid so, Doctor. By your own admission, you have burgled and robbed the house of a minister of state, removing from his possession certain official documents, which, again by your own admission, you passed onto a foreign agent. I don't really see how it could be much worse."

"Dear heavens. Do you think I should go to Lestrade and explain what happened?"

"Not unless you wish for a swift appointment with the gallows. The less the authorities know about your part in this affair, the better, I should say."

"But it was not deliberate. I was acting–" I corrected myself. "Rather I _believed_ I was acting in the best interests of my country."

"Are you able to prove that?"

He was quite correct of course. I had no actual proof that I had been commissioned to undertake this duty. It was simply my word against whosoever it was who had gone to such considerable lengths to fool me – and I had no idea who that might be.

"Then what can I do?" I asked.

Something of my growing agitation must have shown for Mycroft Holmes shifted his bulk in his chair and sat forward in an attitude of greater interest.

"It really is quite simple, Doctor," said he. "You must get the papers back."

I stared at him. Simple, as he said, but impossible.

"In truth, I wouldn't know where to begin."

"That is because you are in turmoil of mind. Some people advocate tea at such times, but I have always been in favour of the medicinal qualities of brandy."

At his call for the valet, through the door came a saturnine man, who had the type of down-turned mouth that gave him the look of a discontented bloodhound. He took the order for our drinks and shortly returned with a brandy for me and a whisky for my companion.

I was much too shaken to contemplate drinking it, but Mycroft Holmes insisted and I downed it despite my initial reluctance.

"Now then, Doctor," he went on. "It seems to me that you have two excellent leads – this alleged 'Sir Ernest Entwhistle', for I sincerely doubt it was he, and the doorman, Collins. Have you been back to the club?"

I shook my head. "I came straight here."

"Then to the club you must go. The doorman came out to see you, I understand?"

"He did."

He grunted. "Which means he did not want you to step inside. This suggests either that there was something inside he sought to prevent you from seeing – the real doorman, perhaps, who may have been drugged for the occasion – or he did not want anyone to witness your presence at the club, and thus later support your statement of the facts. I say either when of course both suppositions may have equal validity."

"You think he was an impostor?"

"Not necessarily. He has only to deny that he had ever met you and who would be able to prove otherwise?" He paused. "There is another possibility. Collins and 'Entwhistle' could be one and the same person."

"The same man in disguise? Surely not. I would have recognised him."

"Would you? The general descriptions you gave of both men were quite similar and it was dark when you met Collins. Well, a visit to Cloades should confirm it one way or another."

"If he is still there, which I sincerely doubt. By now he will have fled the country and taken the papers with him."

Mycroft Holmes shrugged unconcernedly. "Much good would they do him."

I wondered that he could treat the matter so lightly, given the seriousness of the consequences which I had been warned could follow.

"It might be of some consolation to you, Doctor," said he, in answer to my question, "to know that the papers of the former President Murillo are of very little use to anyone outside this country. What this fellow told you was vastly exaggerated, and told for your benefit more than for veracity. You being a loyal and upstanding sort of fellow would have needed strong inducement to commit yourself to such an act. Yes, given your military background, warnings of imminent war would be just the story I would invent if I sought to gain your acquiescence in the matter."

"Then what was it I stole?"

"Murillo's files, as you were told. However, their value is somewhat overrated."

He fished his small tortoiseshell box from his pocket and helped himself to a pinch of snuff.

"Half of the tale this 'Entwhistle' fellow told you is true: Murillo did have files on important personages and these did indeed go missing on the night of the revolt. About a year ago, our government was contacted by someone claiming to have the files and offering them to us for… well, a king's ransom."

He gave a small chuckle.

"What he neglected to mention was that he was in negotiation with other European powers to sell them the files as well. In fact, by the time we received what we believed were ours alone, so had our continental neighbours. One has to admire the fellow's business acumen, if not his audacity."

"You mean, he was selling copies?"

"Yes, indeed! Thus, everyone knew each other's business, so any leverage one would hope to gain from possession of the files was negated. They reveal our secrets, we reveal theirs – stalemate."

"Then what is their significance to the Foreign Office?"

"None whatsoever, in political terms. I did mention that fact at the time," he added, a touch self-importantly. "From what I could gather, Murillo had his agents listen to no end of idle tittle-tattle and gossip. It all makes for sensational reading, but who is the better for knowing which leading industrialist had a mistress in 1878? Most of it is irrelevant to the smooth running of government. However, on a personal level…"

He paused and looked at me expectantly in a manner that reminded me most strikingly of his brother when waiting for my perception of a matter. On this occasion, I had been left in no doubt as to what he was driving at and was able to oblige him with an answer.

"Blackmail?"

"Exactly, Doctor. A good many people who have been doing things they oughtn't have over the years have suddenly become decidedly nervous in the past few hours."

"I can quite see why. But what is to stop this person selling the papers abroad? Once our enemies know the government no longer possesses a copy, won't that give them power over us?"

Mycroft Holmes' smile broadened. "What a perspicacious fellow you are!" said he approvingly. "If only a few more in government thought like you, the world would be a much safer place. However, you need not fear on that account, since the necessity of making several copies was one of the first measures I advised when they came into our hands."

"_You_ advised?" I echoed.

At the time, I had to question what someone who had been described to me as being little more than an auditor was doing advising the highest echelons of the government as to their secret papers. Greater wisdom was to come later, since for now my companion was not keen to elaborate on his role in the matter.

"The important point is that they were copied. So you see, the files you stole – and I do apologise for having to use that word, Doctor, but there it is – were merely one of several duplicates. Needless to say, the government will pay dearly to get them back. However," he added thoughtfully, "I sincerely doubt that will be the route the blackmailer intends to follow. Far easier to blackmail individuals than to take on the might of the British government."

As he spoke, I heard some of his earlier levity leave his voice. His expression mirrored this new mood of seriousness and I sensed that I was about to hear further bad news.

"I feel I must warn you, Doctor, that you could be in grave danger, and I do not mean solely from the hand of justice. This fellow is resourceful and intelligent. That also makes him extremely dangerous. Sherlock would not thank me for sending you into harm's way without adequate warning. But you should know that as far as this character is concerned, you are expendable. Thus far, he seems to have been content to lead you up the garden path and leave it at that, as it were. Should you start to meddle, however, I fear he may come to feel that you are more trouble than you are worth."

"He can but try," I said resolutely.

"That's the spirit," said he with an approving nod. "Well, well, so much we know of the fellow. Let us see what else we can learn. Do you have the letter he wrote?"

As it happened, despite my flurry in leaving earlier, I had had the presence of mind to stuff the note into my pocket. I handed over the crumpled piece of paper for inspection and Mycroft Holmes took a moment to study it with care.

"What a very interesting document. What were my brother's impressions?"

I briefly outlined Sherlock Holmes' deductions about the writer, which produced an expression of the utmost dissatisfaction from my companion.

"Dear me," said Mycroft Holmes. "Sherlock must be ill. To make such elementary mistakes is most unlike him. We shall overlook his deficiencies on this occasion and make allowances for his unfortunate circumstances. However, I hold him entirely to blame for the regrettable situation in which you now find yourself."

"You do?"

He nodded forcefully in reply. "Had he been in his right frame of mind, he should have told you at once that this was written by someone with the deliberate intent to deceive."

As much as I hate to appear too credulous in the face of such declarations, I fear I could not prevent either my jaw growing slack or the hopeless expression of bewilderment which I was sure had come to my face.

"The true copperplate hand is the relic of a bygone and much more elegant age, being the style favoured by our grandfathers. Who but the idler and the deceiver has the time or inclination for pretentious work such as this? That this gentleman should devote his hours to the production of such a piece of frippery suggests that he was attempting to conceal the manner of his own handwriting, thus making later identification impossible."

"But how do you know that it is not his natural hand? Your brother said that it pointed to him being a member of the leisured classes."

"My dear Doctor, this letter speaks of urgency, yet great care has been taken over the precise angle of the letters. Even a man accustomed to the habit of writing in such a manner must forsake perfection in such circumstances. Yet here I observe not one deviation. One could almost measure the slope to find that the angle has been preserved throughout."

"Perhaps he was just being careful," I ventured.

"Too careful," agreed Mycroft Holmes. "Here, observe if you will how precisely the thicks and thins of the letters have been maintained, so such a degree that one may feel how heavily the pen was pressed to the page. This was written by someone who was affecting a hand, possibly copying from an example laid before him. Add all this to the fact that he was using a new nib, I suspect bought solely for the purpose of this letter, and I'm afraid I cannot fail to arrive at the conclusion that letter was intended to deceive."

"It worked," I admitted glumly.

"I will concede to Sherlock's view that he does work for the government, or at least knows someone who does."

"The Whitehall post mark."

He grunted in agreement. "That and his knowledge of the existence of Murillo's files. Yes, I think it is entirely likely that you will encounter him in some capacity in the course of your investigation."

He inhaled deeply and rubbed his hands together in a manner that again irresistibly reminded me of his brother.

"Overall, Doctor," said he, "I would say you have quite a task before you. I do not envy you, especially as your time is so short."

"You think he may have already contacted his potential victims?"

"No, I think your accomplice with the fanciful name and missing fingers will try to dispose of his purloined necklace, for it will hang like a millstone around his neck. When he does, the police are sure to catch up with him. Despite what they say, I do not believe in honour amongst thieves, especially when he could quite easily point the finger of blame in your direction."

"Who would believe him? It seems to me that he shares my problem if he takes his story to the police."

"Actually, I was thinking more of his confederates, who will not take kindly to your making one of their own a scapegoat. Do be most careful when you go about your inquiries. I would hate to find that you had joined my foolish brother in the hospital."

I smiled at his use of the word 'foolish' and decided it was a means of concealing his concern for his ailing sibling. As he had not touched on the subject of his brother's health, I felt I owed it to him, after his frank advice and kindness in assisting me, to forewarn him of his condition.

"I had suspected as much," said he sombrely.

My look of surprise at this pronouncement encouraged him to elaborate.

"Well, the fact you are here, asking my advice, when Sherlock would be the more natural choice, clearly indicates that he must be seriously ill and beyond assisting you."

"Quite so. He is confined to an isolation ward. I have not been able to see him."

Mycroft Holmes sighed. "Typical of the fellow to cause the maximum of inconvenience to all parties concerned. Although one may perhaps perceive a sense of irony in the fact that he has travelled halfway around the world only to succumb on his own doorstep. I did warn him, but as usual he would have it his own way."

I was not particularly taken aback by this cool reaction. Each family deals with the prospect of the loss of one of its members in its own particular fashion. If anything, I had not expected his brother to act any differently. It was a greater hardship to me to hear that a friend had suffered needlessly.

"You knew about his condition?" I asked.

"He had mentioned it in one of his letters, but I didn't realise the extent of the problem until his return to London. I told him then that he should confide in you."

"Why did he not?"

"He said you would insist on his going to hospital."

My soul sank, knowing that his fears had been vindicated.

"All the same, I suggested that he should get himself seen to before it necessitated more extreme measures," Mycroft Holmes continued, oblivious to my growing sense of despondency. "Well, I hate to say I told him so, but in this case I feel I am quite justified. Look where it has landed him – laid up in hospital and infected by some fearful scourge!"

As I had already purged myself of guilt in one matter, it seemed quite natural to admit that to my failings in another. I already had reason to lament the fact that Sherlock Holmes had chosen to suffer rather than to admit to his condition for fear of my reaction and needed no further salt for my wound.

"It was not his entirely his choice," I admitted. "When I saw how serious was his condition, I did _persuade_ him to go."

It was near to the truth, for I baulked at the prospect of having to admit to his brother that I had forcibly drugged his sibling.

As it transpired, Mycroft Holmes took this news in good humour.

"Well, I dare say you did what you thought was best under the circumstances, Doctor. I should have liked to have seen your powers of persuasion in action. I had thought wild horses would not have dragged him to the door of an infirmary."

He chuckled and I offered a weak smile, knowing how close he had come to the truth.

"Having said that," he added pointedly, "I suppose he is _actually_ ill?"

Had we been discussing anyone else, I might have wondered at the strangeness of such a question. Given that the subject of our debate was his brother, however, I could only imagine that he was implying that this was another attempt to feign his own death.

"No one would willingly choose to enter an isolation ward," I informed him.

He accepted my answer with a nod. "Still," he went on, brightly, "there is little we can do about the situation now. Oh, and thank you for your wire, Doctor, but it was quite unnecessary. One does get to hear about these things."

This revelation surprised me, considering the lengths to which I had gone to ensure that as few people as possible knew about his illness.

"My dear fellow, I dare say that the majority of Londoners knew about it the moment Sherlock was admitted," said Mycroft Holmes affably. "Bad news spreads like wildfire, good news travels at a much slower pace. Which reminds me."

He took up the letter again and cast his eye over it.

"When did this arrive?"

"Two days after his operation."

"Addressed to Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"And you took it to him." His brow furrowed into deep lines of concentration. "Do you have any enemies, Doctor?"

The question took me aback somewhat. "Every man has enemies, but none readily spring to mind."

His fleshy features drew into a smile of the utmost amusement.

"At least you are realistic. Most people, when a tragedy occurs, will declare that everyone loved and admired the victim, when it is evident that one person did not share this sentiment. I only ask because this letter was intended for you."

"For _me_?"

"Oh, most assuredly. When it was posted, the author must have been aware of Sherlock's condition. He must also have known that you were in the habit of visiting him regularly in the hospital and taking him his post."

His gaze narrowed.

"Have you been followed recently?" he asked suddenly.

"Not that I have been aware of."

Mycroft Holmes gave a firm shake of his head. "Dear me, I do not like this, Doctor. I can only reiterate that you must exercise extreme caution from hereon in. Someone has skilfully engineered this situation to take advantage of my brother's ailment and your good will. Were I more a more active man, I would accompany you. You will be most careful, won't you?"

"I will endeavour to do my best."

"Good fellow," said he. "All that leaves me is to wish you Godspeed and good luck. Get those files back, Doctor. One suspects your continued well-being may depend upon it!"

* * *

_Continued in VIII: The Cloades Club_

_Reviews very welcome and gratefully received!_

* * *

On a historical note...

Hanging, drawing and quartering was the traditional sentence for high treason and was practised in England as early as 1241, until its abolition in 1870, when it was replaced by hanging alone.

Having done calligraphy, I can say with all honesty that the Copperplate hand is very elegant, but very difficult, since a precise angle of 30 degrees to the horizontal line must be maintained throughout. Nowadays, a special angled nib is used to attain the slope. Originating in the 16th century, Copperplate writing had become less fussy in style by the 19th century, is easier to read and looks more like modern day handwriting.


	8. VIII: The Cloades Club

_**The Adventure of Ex-President Murillo's Papers**_

**VIII: The Cloades Club**

Following Mycroft Holmes' advice, I wasted no time in hurrying to the place where I thought my troubles had ended twelve hours before. Would that I had known then that my problems were only just beginning.

By day, the Cloades Club cut a less than impressive spectacle than it had the night before. Set in the midst of jumbled Georgian terrace, some attention had been given to the front of the building to make it stand out from the lesser of its fellows. Stout Ionic columns greeted the visitor at the head of the steps, smoke-blackened from decades of city life like the rest of the building, whose once gleaming stonework presented a grimy face to the world. Above, applied pilasters marked out the _piano nobile_ with its large casement windows through which could be glimpsed the occasional face or limb, telling of human presence within.

Overall, a respectable if somewhat boring edifice, eminently suitable for the officials of higher echelons of the government who made this club their home. What pretext I had for being here I had not yet established, although clearly it would have to be convincing to gain admittance. If luck was on my side, the doorman should be able to provide me with the answers I sought and I could be on my way before anyone had cause to question what a humble medic was doing in the midst of those who trod the corridors of power.

Unlike the previous evening, I was not met at the door and had to find my own way inside. The door itself was surprisingly heavy and I had thought for one instant that it was barred until the application of greater pressure caused it to budge. The interior entirely met my expectations, being as predictable and staid as the outside. Dark panelling, a carved wooden staircase, an aged doorman slumbering at his desk and rows of former members staring down at me from the portraits that lined the upper walls.

I do not consider myself a fanciful man, but it is fair to say that I was entirely conscious of their painted eyes upon me and I scarcely dared to glance up lest I should meet their scowls of disapproval. If I wore my guilt so obviously, it seemed most likely that I should not long be at liberty.

With time of the essence, I hastened towards the doorman and gave the man a shake. An elderly man of some seventy years, he awoke with a start, fairly dislodging his hat from his grey locks, and blinking heavy eyes in my general direction.

"Begging your pardon," said he, pushing himself up from his slumped position in the chair. "Must have just closed my eyes for a minute. How may I help you, sir?"

"A little information, if you please."

"Most certainly. Directions is it, sir?"

I gathered from this remark that he was called upon to fulfil this role as guide to the rambling streets of the city on a regular basis. I had to wonder just how many people came wandering into the club to find their passage unchallenged as I had. If that had been the case last night, I could see how easy it would have been for the impostor Collins to take a uniform for himself and await my arrival, all under the doorman's not so watchful gaze. With this in mind, I began to sincerely doubt whether my questions would throw up any useful answers.

"Actually, I was here last night," I began in spite of my doubts. "There was another gentleman on the door."

The doorman's face wrinkled into a grin. "Oh, that'd be old Jonas who was on duty."

The word 'old' hardly inspired my confidence that Jonas and Collins were one and the same.

"The man I saw was middle-aged, dark haired."

"That wouldn't be old Jonas," said the doorman, now frowning. "He's eighty if he's a day! And his hair's as white as the newly-driven snow, sir. This younger chap – was he wearing our livery?"

He gestured to the red uniform he wore, replete with the gold buttons and black velvet trimmings I remembered from the night before.

"Well, there's only the two of us who act as doormen," he went on. "We do twelve hour shifts, Jonas taking the night and I the day. He's gone home, though he'll be back at half past six tonight if you'd care to come back. Should I leave a note to tell him to expect you?"

Considering that by that time I could well be languishing in a prison cell, I saw little point in arranging an appointment that I might not be able to keep.

"No, thank you," said I. "It was just an inquiry. I was sure I knew the fellow, that's all."

"Like as not you did, sir. Sounds like someone was playing a game with you."

I forced a smile. A game indeed, albeit a very deadly one.

"Most likely."

"In any case," the affable doorman went on, "I doubt old Jonas will be able to help you. He was a little worse for wear this morning, if you know what I mean."

"Drink?"

"Strong liquor by the smell of it. He was well in his cups when I found him. Not that it happens often, you understand, sir," he added quickly, as if suddenly realising that he had been a little too forthright than was wise. "But it gets chilly in here of a night, even with the stove on, and a small libation does keep out the cold."

"Yes, I quite understand. Don't worry, your secret is safe with me. I'm not a member of the club."

The old gentlemen considered my appearance. "I should say not. You're not one of these government types, but a medical man, I'll wager."

I stared back at him, aghast at this pronouncement, worthy of Holmes himself. "How on earth do you know that?"

He grinned genially and produced from the drawer of his desk a well-thumbed copy of _Beeton's Christmas Annual _of 1887. I was not at all surprised when I saw that particular issue contained my account of _A Study in Scarlet_.

"Now this Mr Holmes is a gent who knows a thing or two about people," said he, tapping his gnarled forefinger on the cover. "I'll grant you that some of it's a bit far-fetched, but the basics of it is right enough. It's what I've been saying for years. You can learn a lot about people if you take the trouble to look. I see all sorts coming through this door – that why I like the day shift, because you never get to meet no one at night."

I could have disagreed with him on that point, but considered it wiser to hold my tongue.

"Take you for instance, sir. I knew you were a doctor the minute I clapped eyes on you."

"Really? How?"

"If you don't mind me saying so, you smell of hospitals, sir." He drew his face into a grimace. "That nasty mixture of boiled cabbage they serve to the patients and carbolic. Something about that smell that's unmistakeable."

As one does when confronted with a comment on one's personal hygiene, I sniffed at my overcoat and found no detectable trace of the odour to which he alluded. Undoubtedly it was there, however, if even his aged senses had noticed it.

"As a matter of fact, I have been to the hospital a good deal of late," said I.

The doorman drew back and covered his nose and mouth with a stained handkerchief.

"Heaven help us!" said he with alarm. "It's not catching, is it?"

"No, no," I hastened to reassure him. "I was visiting a friend."

He visibly relaxed and stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. "Well, there's a lot of it about. You know, I've even heard a rumour that Mr Holmes is poorly."

I sighed and nodded at this further proof, if any were needed, that Holmes' condition was one of the worst kept secrets in London.

"Good thing for us that that friend of his is a doctor," he continued. "Now what's his name? Watkins?"

"Watson," said I absently.

"That's the name. He writes up all Mr Holmes' cases for him. Did you know that, sir?"

"So I've heard."

"Personally, I like them, but the wife says his style is a bit wishy-washy and ends up going round the houses when he should come straight out with what he means and let that be an end of it. What do you think, Dr…?"

"Bartholomew," I lied, having no wish to disillusion the fellow as to my true identity. "I've never read them, so I couldn't say."

"Ah, well, I dare say they're not to everyone's taste," said he, rather curtly as though I had deeply offended his sensibilities on the matter. "Now, sir, was there anything else? I am quite busy here, you know."

As it transpired, something had occurred to me while he had indulged in his critique of my writing style. My eye had wandered to the signing-in book and to a name inscribed in an elegant and familiar hand.

"Is Sir Ernest Entwhistle present?" I asked.

"Why, yes, he is, sir. Try the library, that's where he usually is, reading up about his art and all that. Straight up the stairs, third on the right."

I thanked him and left him to resume his afternoon nap. I had a mind to see the gentleman whose identity had been used to fool me and, given that one lead had already come to nothing, I fostered some vague hope that perhaps Entwhistle might be able to furnish me with another.

It is only when one encounters what others consider to be normality that one realises just how odd the familiar can be. Here was a club that was a different from the Diogenes as the moon was to the sun. No sooner had I reached the top of the stairs than I was greeted by the cheery sound of voices, some raised in debate, others engaged in raucous laughter. Clearly the members did not reflect the gloomy impression given by their surroundings.

The library was a haven of peace amidst the general banter and several gentlemen were within, absorbed in their reading or holding hushed conversations. A valet was leaving carrying a tray with empty glasses as I entered and, at my inquiry, he directed me to a chair by the window where a table was spread with the latest art journals.

Having rounded the chair, I would have been ready to swear that the small, neat gentleman who blinked up at me in confusion and curiosity was the same who had presented me with that preposterous proposition to which I had blithely acquiesced in all my ignorance. The similarity in facial features was remarkable and every detail in dress was correct, down to the exceptional quality of his clothes, his impeccable grooming and even the diamond and ruby tie-pin at his neck.

The only difference was in his bearing. This gentleman, the real Sir Ernest Entwhistle, was a mouse of a man, quiet and unassuming, who seemed more flustered than I at this sudden disturbance, so much so that a high colour rose to his liverish cheeks and he had to produce a pair of spectacles to better take in my appearance.

"Sir Ernest Entwhistle?" I asked, somewhat superfluously.

"Yes, indeed," said he. "You must excuse me, sir, for your name quite escapes me. Have we met?"

"Indirectly. My name is…" I checked myself and decided against full disclosure under the circumstances. "Dr Bartholomew."

"Dear me, Doctor, is this concerning my last consultation? The physician said he would be arranging a consultation with a specialist for me, but I didn't expect you to call in person." He swallowed hard. "Tell me truthfully, Doctor, is it plague?"

"Plague?" I echoed in astonishment. "Why ever would you think that?"

A light sweat had broken out on Entwhistle's brow and he took to dabbing his face with an expensive, initialled silk handkerchief, which seemed only to move the moisture from one cheek to another.

"It's these headaches, Doctor, and the night sweats, and an inability to concentrate, and these hot flushes that come on quite suddenly. What do you think it is?"

I do not profess to be an expert on infectious diseases, but it evidently was not plague. I had a suspicion that Sir Ernest was a valetudinarian and my presence was only feeding his concerns about his health.

"Sir Ernest, I should inform you that I have not been sent here by the hospital. All the same, I feel certain that you are not suffering from plague."

A smile of immense relief broke across his face. "Bless you, sir," said he. "I can sleep easy tonight. But, if you're not from the hospital, then why are you here?"

It was a reasonable question and one to which I had not given sufficient thought.

"I know your uncle, sir," I lied badly. "I was sorry to hear of his misfortune."

"Oh, the burglary. Yes, a bad business. Still, I'm sure they'll catch the villain responsible."

"Do you have any idea of who might be to blame?"

"Me?" he squeaked, clearly appalled at my suggestion. "No, no, most certainly not. My health, you understand, precludes me from taking a position of too great a responsibility in government. My uncle would have me take promotion, but I am quite happy where I am. You see where ambition leads – to ruin, _ruin_, mark you! They do say the missing files were something terribly important. I should surely die from the shock of the thing if such a misfortune were to befall my good self. No, Doctor, I am satisfied with my lot, as meagre as it is."

Not that meagre, I noted, for one who was able to spend his money on expensive clothes and bejewelled tie-pins. I had started to wonder if this fussy manner was for my benefit; if so, it was honed to perfection, even in the way he had begun to fan himself with a journal. What he was not able to feign, however, was the sudden paleness that came to his face and, before I knew what was happening, he had slumped forward in his chair as limp as any wash-rag.

No sooner had I sat him up and loosened his collar than the valet appeared with smelling salts, kept specially, as he informed me, for when Sir Ernest had these 'little turns' of his. Judicious application soon brought the gentleman back to his senses.

"Oh, good heavens," said he. "Whatever happened?"

"You fainted, sir."

"Oh, good heavens, did I? Good heavens, it was all that talk of robbery and ruin. Good heavens, Doctor, whatever is to become of me?"

With any doubts I may have had about the gentleman firmly vanquished, I took my leave since I evidently learnt all I could from Entwhistle. I was willing to stake my professional reputation upon it that he was exactly what he professed to be – a nervous individual, as ill-suited to a life of crime as he was to a career in high office. I would not find the impostor at Cloades.

It did, however, present me with a problem of how to proceed. The question of the identity of the doorman had led me to the conclusion that he must have had some familiarity with the club to know about Jonas' nightly lapses into the bottle. I could envisage a situation where the old man had been given a gift of strong liquor, fully knowing he would indulge as soon as his shift began. That would leave the way clear for 'Collins' to assume his disguise and wait for my appearance.

A return to Cloades when Jonas came on duty was indicated, so that I could question him closely about any gifts from kindly members he may have received in the past few days. With several hours to kill until then, I elected to return to Baker Street to see if any messages had arrived for me from the hospital.

I did not get as far as putting my keys in the lock when there was a tug at my sleeve. I turned to find an irate Jim Hancock beside me. It did not take an intellectual genius to deduce the reason for his visit, and he wasted no time in stating his case.

"Now listen here, Doctor," said he. "When I said I'd help you the other night, I never thought I'd be stealing secrets from me own government."

"Yes, I know, I know," I said with a sigh. "I was fooled too."

"Well, I dare say that's right enough, but what good's that to me? I've had that nosy Inspector Lestrade on my doorstep, upsetting my customers, wanting to know if I've heard anything about the business."

"What did you tell him?"

He put his hands on his hips and regarded me critically. "Now what do you think I said? 'Yes, I did it, Inspector'. You think I'm weak in the head or something? I kept me mouth shut is what I did."

"Good."

"But he was suspicious and if he comes back and claps the derbies on me, I'm gonna have to tell him, Doctor. I don't like traitors and I ain't one."

"Just a thief," I retorted, irritated by his threats. "You took that necklace."

He bridled at this accusation. "What if I did? You took government secrets."

"Granted. But I want that necklace back, Mr Hancock."

"And I want those files back, but neither of us are getting what we wanted, are we?"

"Then what do you propose to do?"

He pulled himself up to his full height. "Well, I'm a reasonable man, Doctor, and I understand what you're saying, but it's like this. I'm a respectable businessman now with a family to feed. Traitors are the lowest of the low and deserve to swing from the gallows tree. But you're a friend of Mr Holmes, so here's what I'll do. You've got till this time tomorrow, Doctor, then me and the boys we'll be paying you a visit, see, and if you ain't got those files by then, well, as much as it pains me to say it, we'll have to take matters into our own hands."

I sincerely did not like what I was hearing.

"Are you threatening me, Mr Hancock?"

"Who's a clever boy?" said he disparagingly. "Yes, if you want to put a name to it, so you'd better get those files back, ain't you?"

There was a tone of menace in his voice that was unmistakeable. I was certain that he meant to carry out his threat and it would be ill for me if he did so. A day to retrieve the stolen files was scant time when the past few hours had thrown up precious little of value. I would either have to make myself scarce – and the thought of being intimidated by the likes of Hancock was anathema to my soul – or devise some way of confounding him.

I now understood, too late as it transpired, Holmes' cautionary words about putting oneself in another man's power. How to wrest back control was the problem I now faced.

That, and what to do about the person stood a few feet away, who now caught our attention by loudly clearing his throat. I forced myself to smile and glanced in his direction.

"Inspector Lestrade," said I. "What a pleasant surprise."

* * *

_Continued in IX: The Scene of the Crime_

_Reviews all very welcome and much appreciated!_

* * *

Just out of interest, a first edition copy of _Beeton's Christmas Annual 1887_ with the first printing of _A Study in Scarlet_ was donated to a charity shop in Harrogate and was sold at auction recently for a whopping £15,500. If that doorman has finished with his copy, I'll have it, well-thumbed or not!


	9. IX: The Scene of the Crime

_**The Adventure of Ex-President Murillo's Papers**_

**IX: The Scene of the Crime**

There is something ineffably strange about how the people one least hopes to meet turn out to be a blessing in disguise.

In this case, I was both glad and somewhat perturbed to see Inspector Lestrade standing a few feet away, wearing an imperious expression on his face and with folded arms. Glad, because his appearance effected an immediate change in the menacing attitude of my erstwhile partner-in-crime; perturbed, because I had to wonder just how much of our conversation he had overheard.

Mr Hancock was clearly of the same mind, for at the sight of the Inspector, he started with obvious alarm and immediately began to back away from me.

"Inspector Lestrade," said he falteringly. "Fancy seeing you again, here of all places."

"Our paths do seem to keep crossing, Hancock," said Lestrade. "Keeping your nose out of mischief, I hope?"

"You know me, Inspector. As straight as the day is long."

Lestrade snorted. "Spare me, Hancock. I wasn't born yesterday. Is this fellow giving you any trouble, Dr Watson?"

I shook my head. "Our business was concluded in any case. Isn't that right, Mr Hancock?"

"Right enough," said he. "Well, I can't hang about here all day. Remember what I said about this time tomorrow, Doctor, or you know what."

"You can rest assured I won't forget, Mr Hancock."

"Righto. Be seeing you. Good day to you, Inspector Lestrade."

With that, he scuttled away, leaving me to face Lestrade's accusatory manner alone. For a long while, he simply stood there, staring at me, which was worse than if he had asked an awkward question. The growing silence grew ever more intolerable until I was forced to provide some account of my previous conversation.

"Mr Hancock is a baker," said I, at a loss for a sensible reply. "You know, bread and cakes and –"

"I know what a baker is, Doctor," Lestrade countered. "I'm only surprised that you have dealings with him."

"Not I. Holmes does. That's why Mr Hancock was here. An unpaid bill. He wants it paid by tomorrow or…"

"Or you know what. Yes, I heard him. Didn't sound too friendly to me. That's not the way to drum up business."

I shrugged apologetically. "Well, you know what these shopkeepers are like."

"Strange though that you should mention him only this morning, then I go and visit him and now I find you here deep in conversation with the fellow."

"No, not strange, Inspector, just a coincidence."

"I see," said he, although his tone suggested most strongly that the opposite was in fact true. "Did I hear you say something about a necklace, Doctor?"

I inwardly groaned and felt my soul sink. He _had_ heard.

"No, I don't think so," I lied. "I did mention a _neck brace_. Perhaps that was it."

"A neck brace?"

"Yes," said I, warming to my topic. "It seems Mrs Hancock is having some trouble with her neck, so I suggested to Mr Hancock that a support might help her for a while. Now, how may I help you, Lestrade?"

He sniffed heavily and considered. "Well, as it happens, I stopped by on the off-chance that you'd had a chance to talk over the case with Mr Holmes."

"No, he's still very ill."

"Oh, so you've been to the hospital?"

"No, I've not had the opportunity yet."

"That's most unlike you, Doctor."

The rapidity of these questions had made me start to think that Lestrade was interrogating me. Then again, as his off-duty manner was little removed from his official persona, I had to hope that these were nothing more than his attempt at engaging in idle pleasantries.

"Well, I've been busy with a few other things," said I, in answer to his question.

"A patient?"

I nodded.

"The same one from last night?"

"Yes, him."

"Oh, a man, was it?"

I cast my mind back furiously, trying to remember what I had told Lestrade earlier. I was sure I had been vague as to details and had to wonder if he was not trying to lure me into a trap. That of course is the inherent problem with lying – it requires an excellent memory to keep up with the ever-growing web of intrigue. Lose one thread and the whole edifice tumbles down.

As I could neither remember nor be sure, I decided to cut my losses and move onto a safer topic.

"Are you any further with your investigation?" I inquired.

He grimaced. "No, worse luck. I've been doing the rounds of the old villains, asking if anyone's heard anything, but so far, no one's talking."

"Would they confide in you, Inspector?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised, Doctor. These old-school types have a certain code of honour. They'd pick a rich cove's pocket as soon as look at him, but when it comes to dabbling in state affairs, they're all up in arms about it. Take Jim Hancock, for example. You should've seen his face when I questioned him. I've never seen a man more indignant in all my life."

It did not take much imagination to realise what had caused that reaction.

"Much good that it did me," Lestrade went on ruefully. "Now, I've got to go back to Lord Lewis to report on my findings, such as they are. I'm sure I don't know what to tell him and he's a man with a fearful temper."

He had my sympathy, although not the extent where I felt compelled to tell him that he had one of the culprits within his grasp. For the time being, I was still at liberty, at least from the law, and still able to pursue my own investigation into the matter. What would happen if I had had no success by this time tomorrow did not bear thinking about; failure was not to be countenanced.

That being the case, I had a dim realisation of how the Inspector could be of assistance in my predicament. I remembered Mycroft Holmes saying how it was likely that this villain was in some why connected with the government and that I might well encounter him in the course of my inquiries. As the whole sordid business had revolved around the contents of Lord Lewis' safe, it seemed a natural assumption to believe that I might find some of my answers there.

Since I could not find a plausible reason to go alone, I would have to persuade Lestrade to take me.

"If it would help, I could come with you," I suggested. "On the pretext of conveying any information back to Mr Holmes. That might help to assuage Lord Lewis' anger on your lack of progress."

Lestrade's glum expression brightened considerably. "You'd do that, Dr Watson? But what about Mr Holmes? I thought you were going to visit him."

"They wouldn't let me near him even if I went," I explained. "There's little I can do for him."

"Very well," said he decidedly. "Two heads are better than one, even if they are only fish heads, as they say."

I was not sure that I quite appreciated the analogy, but was more than happy that Lestrade had accepted my offer. I paused only to confirm with Mrs Hudson that no message had arrived from the hospital in my absence and then hurried to join Lestrade in his waiting cab. The traffic was mercifully light through the centre of London that afternoon and we made good time to Blackheath and the scene of my crime only hours before.

Beechcroft's stone walls shone honey-gold in the late afternoon sunshine, giving the impression of some West Country dwelling. That was the best that could be said of the villa, however, for daylight was somewhat unforgiving and served to highlight what darkness had concealed. For a man of Lord Lewis' alleged refinement, it was to be hoped that his house was no reflection of his character.

Squat, unremarkable and downright ugly would have been the kindest adjectives to describe it, and then in the spirit of generosity. The windows were disproportionate in relation to their position, with as many as possible squeezed into the fabric of the building, so that it appeared more glass than wall. The carriage front had been disfigured by an over-exuberant porte-cochere in the Gothic style, which sat ill with the columns and pediments rendered in a loose nod to classicism.

This same carelessness of style continued into the interior, where heavy red velvet door curtains clashed with gaily-patterned chair covers, brass with silver, and Staffordshire figures with gaudy glass lustres. The impression I was forming of the Foreign Office minister was either that he had an extremely eclectic taste or a woeful lack of judgment.

The butler, a sullen middle-aged fellow, with a thin face and sour mouth, the same who I had seen on the previous evening helping himself to his master's brandy, took our coats and showed us into the study. I let Lestrade lead the way and followed at a discreet distance, taking my time to note that little had changed from my last visit. The chair with which I had collided with still at its awkward angle to the door, and I observed with some amusement that Lestrade replicated my earlier clumsiness by inadvertently kicking one of its stubby legs with his foot.

The only change was in the presence of the owner of the house. Lord Lewis stood with his back to the seascape painting, a look of thunder etched into every line of his grey features. An elderly man of some seventy years, I knew from what I had read of the gentleman that he was a highly respected statesman who had made his name during the difficult years when the Queen had largely absented herself from government. He had a reputation for being hard on his junior ministers, and from the look on his face now, I gathered that extended to members of the Yard whom he found lacking.

"Well, Lestrade?" he thundered. "Have you caught the blackguard?"

"Not yet," the Inspector replied hesitantly.

"Not yet! What's the matter with you, man?"

Lestrade visibly shrank in stature. "It's still early in our inquiries and –"

"Early? Late, you mean!" Lord Lewis fairly barked. "It's over fourteen hours since the discovery of the crime and you still haven't made any progress. And who is this?"

His gaze had turned to me, not entirely approvingly.

"Ah, this is Dr Watson," said Lestrade. "Your Lordship will recall that you asked for Mr Sherlock Holmes' assistance in this unfortunate business."

"Then who's this fellow?"

"I am Mr Holmes' associate, Lord Lewis," said I. "He has instructed to me act for him while he is unavailable."

"Unavailable? What sort of answer is that? Well, Doctor, speak up, sir."

I had the curious sensation of being back at school before a stern headmaster with a cane at the ready should my answer prove unsatisfactory. I could quite sympathise with Lestrade's grovelling demeanour before the minister, since his overbearing manner was having a similar effect on me.

"Mr Holmes is grievously ill," said I.

"Then what the devil use is he to me? I've been robbed of important government papers, sir, and I stand on the very brink of ruin. I would have his full attention in the matter or none at all!"

"You have my sympathies, Lord Lewis. However, in Mr Holmes' absence, I am quite able to collect the necessary information he will need to form an opinion about the case. So, if you would be so kind to answer a few questions."

Lord Lewis sighed. "I see I have no option but to comply. Very well, Doctor, you can hardly do any worse than Lestrade and his pack of blunderers."

"Thank you," said I, taking out my notebook. "When did you discover the loss, sir?"

He sank into the nearest chair and his demeanour mellowed, I sensed from sheer nervous exhaustion over the affair. His breathing had become ragged and his hand went to his chest as if calm his pounding heart. Finally, he proceeded with his tale.

"I had attended a state function with my wife and we returned late, oh, it must have been about half past one. Before we retired, my wife gave me her jewels to place back in the safe. When I opened it, I noticed that the contents had been disturbed. Further inspection revealed that a bundle of government files had been taken along with one of my wife's necklaces."

"And this is where they entered," I said, wandering over the study windows.

"Why, yes," said Lord Lewis, his tone expressive of his surprise at my announcement.

"However did you know that, Dr Watson?" Lestrade asked.

I realised I had overplayed my hand and, with two curious pairs of eyes upon me, I hurried to concoct some explanation for my pronouncement.

"The logical place of entry for professional burglars, wouldn't you say, Lestrade?"

"Well, yes," said he. "As it happens, that is exactly where they came in. We found their footprints outside. It rained last night, so their tracks were as clear as anything."

"And they walked mud all over my Persian carpet," said Lord Lewis gruffly. "Just to add insult to injury, no doubt."

I ruefully recalled my thoughts at the time concerning the evidence I was leaving of our presence in the sodden earth, although I should have anticipated that we had left further proof on the study floor. Lestrade gestured to something by my feet and I looked down to see a very clear imprint of my own boot print. I quickly moved away, lest the Inspector make some remark about the similarity in size.

"Who would have known about these state papers?" I asked, thinking back to my own problem.

"Very few," said Lord Lewis. "Several members of the Cabinet, a few junior ministers, all entirely trustworthy men and loyal citizens, I can assure you. Oh, and my nephew too, Sir Ernest Entwhistle, although I discount him."

The mention of a familiar name caught my attention. "Do you, sir? Why?"

He lifted troubled eyes to glare at me. "Because he is family, Doctor. He has also quite the worst constitution of any man of my acquaintance. He is a physical weakling and moral wreck. What else could be expected of a man whose father painted fancy pictures? In any case, he was with us last night at the function, so that quite rules him out."

Considering the means by which the files had been secured, it mostly surely did not rule out him. Entwhistle's name was featuring far too prominently in this affair for my liking.

All the same, I thought back to our meeting and the nervous, fretful individual with his fanciful worries about his health, so alike in appearance to the gentleman who artfully deceived me, yet completely different in demeanour. Either the villain behind this crime had had the profound good fortune to bear a remarkable resemblance to the gentleman in question, or I had underestimated Entwhistle's capacity for deceit.

However, these were not the sort of questions for his uncle's ears and I still could not reconcile a hidden criminal nature with the character of the man I had met. It was evident that I needed to investigate other avenues of inquiry.

"What about your servants?"

Something of Lord Lewis' earlier manner reasserted itself and his grey eyes glittered as hard as diamonds.

"I am not in the habit of discussing matters of state with the hired help, Doctor," said he tersely. "It is perfectly obvious to one and all that this foul deed was perpetrated by some outside agency."

"All the same, I did take the liberty of having the servants' quarters searched," said Lestrade.

"And found nothing! Another waste of time."

Lord Lewis rose abruptly to his feet.

"Who would you accuse next, Inspector? My wife?"

"Not at all, sir. But in cases like these, we do have to examine every option."

"Then you must look elsewhere," came the haughty reply. "I do not like the slur you have cast upon my household, Inspector. They are all entirely reliable and of limited intelligence as befits their station. Such a high-minded crime is beyond them."

I exchanged glances with Lestrade at the temerity of this statement, at which he shook his head in exasperation.

"Take my butler for instance," Lord Lewis continued. "He has been in my service for twenty-two years, man and boy. He is as honest a fellow as one could hope to find in a man of his class."

I could have mentioned that this same honest fellow was in the habit of enjoying his master's fine wines when his back was turned, but thought better of it, considering the method by which I had come by that knowledge.

"To accuse him of so base a crime as stealing is insulting to his good name and my judgement of the man. I would stake my life on Collins' integrity."

"Collins?" I uttered, astonished that he should share the same name as the impostor doorman at Cloades.

"Do you know him, Doctor?" asked Lestrade.

"Well, no," said I falteringly. "But the name sounded familiar."

"A common enough name for a common enough man," said Lord Lewis. "Have you any further questions?"

I shook my head.

"Then if you will excuse me, gentlemen. My compliments to Mr Sherlock Holmes, Doctor."

I was too shaken to do much more than mumble my thanks and it fell to Lestrade to fairly haul me from the room. No sooner had we set foot into the hall than we were confronted by none other than the butler and the nephew.

Entwhistle started in mild surprise and delight when he saw me. "Good heavens," said he affably. "It's Dr Bartholomew, isn't it?"

At my side, I caught Lestrade's stifled gasp.

"How is your health now, sir?" I asked hurriedly.

"Poor, Doctor, very poor," said Entwhistle, pulling out his large handkerchief to dab at his brow. "I have been spared plague to be sure, although I fear I shall soon be carried off by some terrible ague. This business, Doctor, most distressing. My poor uncle, his heart is not strong, you know. I fear this will be the death of him."

As he spoke, I tried once more to detect that artfulness of manner that could point to his culpability in the crime. Try as I might, however, I could not shake my earlier opinion of the man and was left with the conclusion that we had both been the victim of a clever impostor.

The butler presented a more credible alternative, since he was roughly the same height and build as Entwhistle. I could well envisage him impersonating a doorman at Cloades, but given that his general demeanour was one of abject subjugation, caused no doubt by daily exposure to the rough edge of Lord Lewis' tongue, I had difficulty seeing him taking on the role of the assured gentleman who had commissioned me in my criminal endeavour. A question or two would test that theory.

"I expect the strain is felt by the entire household," said I. "It cannot be easy when all stand under suspicion."

Entwhistle let out a feeble croak and I half expected him to faint away again.

"Good heavens, surely I am not suspected," he cried. "I was not even here. You only have to ask my uncle."

"We did, sir," said Lestrade. "He confirms that you were with him and his good lady."

"Thank heavens," said Entwhistle with exaggerated relief. "To be accused of such a deed, whatever would become of me?"

"I imagine the servants feel the same way," I suggested. "Isn't that so, Collins?"

The butler eyed me warily, as if he was not accustomed to being addressed with such civility.

"It is indeed a hard thing, sir," said he.

"You were here last night?"

"As I am every night, sir. I locked up and went to my room, leaving only to admit the master and mistress in the early hours."

Since the discovery of the crime had coincided with my handing over the files to the mysterious doorman at Cloades, I knew Collins was clear of that charge. Not even the world's greatest magician had perfected the art of truly being present in two places at once.

With no further reason to detain the pair, I had to step aside for them to pass into Lord Lewis' violated sanctum, leaving me to face Lestrade's impatient curiosity.

"Now what's this game you're playing at, Dr Watson?" said he, taking me by the arm and leading me out of the hall and through the front door. "Out with it!"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," I said weakly.

"Why Entwhistle thinks your name is Bartholomew would be a start. And how did you know about the study window?"

"Lucky guess."

"Lucky guess, my foot! You seem to know a good deal more about this burglary than you're telling, Doctor. Well, you might as well tell me now and have done with it before you find yourself in deep waters."

I held his gaze, willing myself to concoct some plausible lie to wrong foot him. It seemed perfectly obvious to me, however, that my lies and poor attempts at extricating myself from the whole sordid business had finally caught up with me. I had worn my guilt openly and it had not taken much for the acute Inspector to read the signs.

Since he had seen through my deception, there was little point in denying it now. Added to which, I was so very tired of the lying, the endless questions, the threats and the tangled skein of confused identities. I could quite see why many a felon took it upon himself to own up to his crimes. Frankly, it would be a relief to get the thing off my conscience, whatever the consequences.

I steeled myself and hoped that Lestrade would take a benevolent enough view of the situation to allow me to continue to try to right the wrong I had done.

"I'm already in deep waters, Inspector," I admitted. "You see, I took those files. I committed the burglary."

Lestrade stared hard at me, one eye slightly narrowed more than the other, in the attitude of a man giving a great deal of thought to the matter in hand. Then, suddenly and to my consternation, he burst out laughing.

"Upon my word," said he; "I've never heard anything so absurd in all my days. You the thief, Doctor? And I suppose Mr Holmes rose from his sickbed to help you?"

"No, he was not involved. It was all my doing."

This only served to make him laugh all the more. "Really, Doctor," said he, wiping the tears from his cheeks. "That was most amusing, but you didn't have to invent some outrageous lie for my benefit. I know exactly what you're doing."

"You do?"

He nodded assuredly. "You're trying to solve this case on your own. First I find you talking to that old villain Hancock, who no doubt took your money and fed you some cock-and-bull story. Then I find you've been interviewing the suspects in the case under an assumed alias. It's very commendable, Dr Watson, but trust me, sir, this is the sort of thing best left to the professionals."

I nodded my tacit agreement at that sentiment.

"Now, the best thing you can do is go to that hospital and try and get your friend on the mend, so we can get this business cleared up before his lordship in there has an apoplexy and I get the boot for not doing my job. Oh, and you'd better not go around telling too many people about your life of crime; some fool might be inclined to believe you."

On the face of it, I had yet to hear better advice. I was not sure if I was not slightly offended by Lestrade's flat refusal to believe my confession after the effort it had taken to reveal my sins to the world; still, there was something positive to be said for being thought incapable of such a deed. This evening at least I would not be beginning the first of many nights in a prison cell.

There still remained the problem of Jim Hancock's promise of what he would do in the event of my not locating the files. Between gaol and a thrashing to within an inch of my life, I was not entirely sure which was the better option. Having managed to elude one fate, however, it behoved me to act similarly with regards to the other. For the sake of my own conscience, as much as for Hancock's threat, I had to find those files.

The only avenue of investigation remaining was with the Cloades' doorman, Jonas, to test my theory that the old man had been plied with strong liquor to ensure his inebriated compliance in the deception. If so, and he could identify his benefactor, then I might at last have some answers.

I joined a still chuckling Lestrade in the waiting Hansom and we rattled away down the drive. I played along with the pretence of accepting his advice and gave no indication of my real destination. However, my pride was somewhat piqued by his derisory attitude to my confession, which made me naturally curious.

"Why didn't you believe me?" I asked him.

His grin broadened. "Because you're the most decent and upright person I know, Doctor, and I don't say that lightly. I'd as soon as believe my old granny was a criminal than you, sir. You're just…" He hesitated. "Well, you're a little too staid for that sort of thing, if you don't mind me saying so."

I sighed. There were worse things than being considered predictable by one's friends, I supposed; rather that than being thought a thief.

"No offence intended, of course," said Lestrade apologetically.

"No, none taken."

"It's just that, well, it's the sort of thing I could see Mr Holmes doing, but not you, leastways not on your own initiative."

"Thank you, Lestrade."

"A pleasure. Now, Doctor, where I can drop you off?"

* * *

_Continued X: The Discovery_

_Reviews, thoughts and comments all very welcome and much appreciated!_


	10. X: The Discovery

_**The Adventure of Ex-President Murillo's Papers**_

**X: The Discovery**

I left Lestrade at Scotland Yard on the pretext of another appointment and continued my journey on foot through Whitehall to the Cloades Club. It was a little after seven by the time I arrived to find the door ajar and a warm glow issuing from within. Darkness had brought with it the return of rain and I was glad to step inside out of the deluge and shake a little of the water from my hat.

Several gentlemen alighted from cabs and hurried past me, shedding coats to reveal immaculate evening wear. Outer garments were tossed to the doorman with perfunctory greetings and the guests proceeded up the stairs. I had arrived in the midst of a private function and was left feeling somewhat underdressed in my plain suit and mud-splattered shoes.

The doorman had a kindly twinkle in his eyes as I approached and bore a warm smile that was out of place in the chilly hallway. Stouter than his day-shift counterpart, he had the look of an old sailor, with great white whiskers and weather-beaten skin, and wore his livery with the pride of a man accustomed to uniform.

"Mr Jonas?" I asked.

"That be my name, sir," said he. "And you are?"

"Dr Watson."

"Medical gent, eh? B'ain't no one here ill, Doctor."

"No, I'm here for…"

I gestured vaguely in the direction of the stairs.

"Oh, the dinner. Don't me saying this, Doctor, but I was told it's a formal do, like."

I took his point and glanced down at my unkempt appearance.

"I have my clothes upstairs to change," I replied.

Strange how it is that with each lie, the next becomes that much easier. It was enthralled by a rather unsettling sense of revelation on how easy it was to slip into a life of crime.

"Ah, guest speaker, are you, Doctor?" asked the doorman, taking up the pen. "If you'd sign in, sir. The governors like it so that in years to come they can show new members all the illustrious gents we've had come here. Important are you, Doctor?"

"Not really."

"Don't be modest, sir. They don't ask just anyone here." He leaned forward confidentially. "You'll never guess who we had here last week."

"Who?"

He winked. "Only the Prime Minister. So, you see, sir, you're treading in some very grand footsteps."

"Am I? Well, that's good to know."

I passed him my coat, which he stowed away in a cupboard, where I caught a glimpse of a garment bearing the club's distinctive colours and buttons. I had my answer about where the impostor had obtained his means of disguise. I could envisage him sneaking past the slumbering Jonas to extract the spare coat in anticipation of my arrival and returning it after our business was concluded.

"Isn't it cold in here?" said I, feigning a slight shiver when Jonas retook his place at the desk. "You must feel it."

"Oh, I do, sir. From time to time, I invest in a little insulation, if you know what I mean."

"Brandy? I don't blame you, Mr Jonas."

"Well, I can't afford the good stuff, mind," said he. "Although last night, one of the gentlemen was celebrating his birthday and he gave me a bottle. "Have this to toast my good health, Mr Jonas," says he."

"And did you? Toast his good health?"

"Be sure of it, Doctor. If ever there was a man who needed good health, it's poor Sir Ernest Entwhistle."

And yet again, there was that name. I am willing to believe in that happy fate that occasionally throws strange and meritorious coincidence into the path of mankind, but it should not happen too often. The feeling was unreal, so that I was unsure whether I was following in his shadow or he was dogging mine. All my instincts were screaming of the man's guilt; all my sense of rationality was telling me otherwise. 'Poor Sir Ernest', everyone said. The man's own uncle had called him a physical weakling and moral wreck.

Except – and it required a huge leap of faith on my part to even think such a thing – I was starting to see how, if one set aside the nonsensical talk of plague and his overly pedantic manner, no one was better placed than Entwhistle for the undertaking of this deed. It was something which perhaps I had always suspected, but had deliberately set myself against on the grounds of sheer improbability.

Then again, as Sherlock Holmes was fond of telling me, when the impossible was excluded, whatever remained, however improbable, had to be the truth. Now, I dimly began to see the error of my ways. The facts fitted; only the man's character did not.

Entwhistle knew about the files, and almost certainly he knew the whereabouts of their location in his uncle's house. That plan I had been given of the study had been explicit as to detail. He had been with his uncle that evening, but they had parted company, leaving Lord Lewis to return to find his home invaded. A rough estimation of journey time between Whitehall and Blackheath gave me a time for their departure at approximately one o'clock, plenty of time for Entwhistle to arrive at Cloades, where he had seen to it that the doorman was inebriated, don the spare uniform and then wait for me.

I could even believe it had been he whom I had met in Baker Street that fateful afternoon. I remembered Mycroft Holmes espousing the theory that the same man could have been involved on both occasions and if I was allowing the possibility that Entwhistle was the culprit, then it seemed entirely likely.

The brazen audacity of it was astonishing. He had flaunted his identity in my face, even composing a letter in his own distinctive hand. He had both made himself a suspect and ruled himself out simultaneously, for who would ever believe it possible of the man? I had had trouble believing it; set that against the ranks who could testify as to the man's general character and I knew who would be called the liar should I point the finger of blame at him.

I have never shared Holmes' belief that some crimes may be elevated to the status of high art. Clearly, however, there was a sense of perfection in this business that placed it above and beyond the commonplace. Either Entwhistle was the most consummate actor that had never graced the London stage or I was barking up entirely the wrong tree. I had to believe the former, as improbable as it may have seemed, for my suspicions to be right.

That left me to both marvel at the man's skill and wonder at my sanity, for while this no doubt fitted the facts, I had no proof. A letter could be forged, a man could be impersonated – in fact, there was little more than my word against his, a self-confessed thief, who had made off with government papers and a lady's necklace. If I were to exonerate myself and prove his guilt, I would still have to find the files. For all my theories, I had advanced not one jot further.

In the few seconds it took for these thoughts to pass through my head, the doorman had relaxed into his chair with a contented sigh and his eyelids had started to droop. As the best source of information I had yet encountered in this business, I was determined not to lose his attention just yet.

"Sir Ernest Entwhistle?" said I absently. "The name sounds familiar."

"Oh, you know him, Doctor?" said Jonas.

"Vaguely. Describe him to me."

"Oh, he's on the small side with a beard and moustache. And he's always well dressed, sir. Never without his tie-pin."

"Diamond and ruby?"

Jonas clicked his fingers. "Why, that's the one. Told me it was given to him by an Italian count, he did."

I scarcely heard him. My thoughts were back to that afternoon in Baker Street and the wink of light on the facets of diamonds set against blood-red rubies, the same I had noted when I had encountered Entwhistle upstairs in the library. 'Never without his tie-pin', Jonas had said. How true that was. He had even worn it to our interview. No impostor, however elaborate his disguise, would go to the unnecessary expense of purchasing a real jewel pin just for my benefit. The nerve of the man was quite outstanding.

Even so, every man has his limits. I thought back to the flush that had come to his face on our second meeting when I had come upon him quite suddenly. He had smothered it admirably with talk of his health; he had not even batted an eyelid when I had given an alias. For all my cleverness, I was a mere amateur compared to this gentleman, who had even feigned a fainting spell to further fool me.

Here was a foe Holmes would have appreciated, whose intellect worked on more levels than I was capable of understanding. He had heaped deception upon deception, and entangled me in a web of intrigue from which I could see no escape. Lestrade might not want to believe my culpability, but others would. From here the path led to either the gallows or my death in a dimly-lit alley. Salvation lay with a bundle of files that were hidden only Entwhistle knew where.

What one man can hide, however, another may discover. Having identified my foe, I could do no worse than follow him and let him lead me to his hiding place. I pondered where that might be. Rationally, I could not see him leaving them at his place of work or home. If I were to point the finger, the police would be duty bound to conduct a search of the premises, however dubious the claim. Rather it would have to be somewhere close on hand, somewhere safe, somewhere no one would think of looking.

My gaze travelled upwards. It was so obvious that it could not possibly be true. Then again, what better hiding place than here, at his club? I had even brought them to the door for him. All he had to do was to secrete them in some safe place, where they were unlikely to be disturbed by the other members. I thought back to earlier in the day, of the noise and commotion, of the small haven of peace populated by so few, of Entwhistle sitting surrounding by his journals, and suddenly I knew where the files were.

I took my leave of the doorman and made my way up the stairs. Candlelight and the smell of roast lamb issued from the open double-doors leading into the members' hall, where clusters of black-clad gentlemen talked in groups. I lowered my head and walked in the other direction, pressing myself into the shadows until I was safely in the inner sanctum of the library.

The room was illuminated by the gaslight, but devoid of members. A formidable challenge faced me. I had not remembered quite so many books or so many shelves. A task soon begun is soon completed, however, and no sooner had I started than I realised how I might save myself some time. Traces of dust left by lax cleaners and undisturbed by apathy on the part of the club's members meant I could ignore the vast majority.

In fact, in no time at all, I had turned my attention to the scholarly collection of art history books that lined the uppermost shelves by the windows, exactly where I had found Entwhistle earlier. If I ever managed to extricate myself from this mess and Holmes recovered to hear this tale of woe, he could take some satisfaction from knowing that his assessment of the man's fondness for the arts had not been entirely adrift.

I had thought I would have to turn out every volume to see if Entwhistle had secreted the papers between the pages, but a cursory examination of the shelves revealed another possibility. On the highest shelf, the books stood on the very edge, whereas below volumes of a similar size sat comfortably back. With the blood hammering in my ears, I collected the ladder, clambered up it and slowly withdrew a book in the middle of the row. Behind it, between the books and the wall, I saw something large and buff in colour.

I had found the files. I almost cried out from sheer relief.

In no little time, I had retrieved the files from their hiding place and assembled them on the table. In my haste, one dropped to the floor, scattering its contents far and wide. I hurriedly scooped up the pages, but not before my eye had fallen upon a familiar name.

I will readily admit that my Spanish is not as good as it might be, but even I could deduce that the writer had something not particularly complimentary to say about a certain young Mr Sherlock Holmes. I stuffed the egregious sheet in my pocket to read when I had more time and returned the file to the pile.

I had gathered all into my arms and was about to straighten up when I heard the soft click of a pistol being cocked. I froze, save for the hairs I could feel rising on the back of my neck, and waited.

"Well, well, Dr Watson, what have you there?" said a voice I barely recognised, stripped as it was of that whining tone that had so grated on the nerves. "Do turn around, Doctor. I despise holding conversations with the backs of people's heads."

Accordingly, I turned and was not disappointed by the sight that awaited me. Entwhistle stood there, dark fury in his eyes and a small pistol in his hand. Any trace of his former persona had been shrugged off in favour of this black-garbed, utterly compelling individual who now stood before me, diamonds glinting at his neck like a cold reflection of his soul twinned with the ruby-eyed glimmer of inner demons.

His gaze fixed on the files I held tightly clutched to my breast.

"A clever piece of detective work," said he sardonically. "I congratulate you."

"I cannot return the compliment," I retorted.

He raised a single brow at this slight. "Oh, but I think you must. You would agree that I have done so very well thus far. But it is better I think if we continue our discussion in more private quarters. As rowdy as my fellow members are, I think even they might become curious if I am forced to shoot you here."

He gestured with the gun towards the door, indicating that that was the direction in which I must go. I have always held that it is wise never to argue with a man with a loaded gun, so had no other option but to comply. Out in the corridor, I toyed briefly with the idea of making a run for it towards the dining hall in the hope that his shot would go wild.

Entwhistle had evidently had the same idea, for he arrived quickly at my side and pressed the muzzle of the gun into my ribs.

"I would not advise it, Doctor," said he. "This gun is small, but it can make a dreadful mess of a person's stomach. Considering the terrible diseases one comes into contact with in the hospitals these days, a prolonged internment would be most unwise."

As much as one hates to be a willing accomplice in one's own demise, at the present time I saw no other alternative. I was nudged down the corridor and through the door behind which was the servants' stair. With a nod of his head, he gestured for me to climb. When the steps finally ran out, I was pushed into the dim light of the attic and from there into a lumber room filled with clutter and broken furniture.

No sooner were we inside than Entwhistle had closed the door and pressed his back against it.

"Dr Watson, tsk, tsk," said he. "I thought we had an agreement, sir, that you would steal those files for me and take the consequences. You cannot back out now."

"So it was you who came to Baker Street," I retorted.

"Naturally," he replied archly. "Do you think I would trust so important a commission to a lackey? Allow me some credit for valuing what little intelligence you possess."

"Why? Why me?"

"You were convenient and now you are not. I did warn you that no trail would ever lead back to me and yet you persisted in trying to correct your error." He sighed with resignation. "It pains me to have to do this, but if Scotland Yard had deigned to perform within the least of their parameters, then you would have ceased to become a nuisance to me. As it is, I am forced into the unpleasant business of murder or risk losing my liberty. Well, well, one cannot be squeamish about these things."

He spoke as lightly as if he were discussing nothing more tendentious than the day's weather. The change in the man was absolute and terrifying.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"A philosophical question, Doctor, at such a time as this? I would have thought you had more pressing concerns."

"Are you Sir Ernest Entwhistle?"

"Yes, sometimes. He is a role of longstanding that sits well enough with me. He is my construct." He hesitated briefly. "No, rather he is my uncle's construct, a fellow respectable enough to share familial ties, yet possessing those elements of despicability which are so necessary to foster contempt and pity."

"I don't follow you."

"Some twelve years ago, I was another person, Doctor. I was an actor called Robin Tallifer, plying my trade on the Continent. People told me I was exceptional and I had no reason to doubt them. The Italian nobleman who gave me this tie-pin as proof of his regard told me was I gifted above all others. I think you would agree that my performance over the past few days has been proof of that."

I did not dignify him with an answer, although clearly there was a good deal of truth in what he said.

"All it took was one critic. He said I was slight. I killed him in a personal contest for that insult and found myself thrown into a foreign prison for my pains, there to languish for the rest of my natural life, abandoned and forgotten."

"You were fortunate you were not hanged."

"Was I?" said he dispassionately. "Robin Tallifer died in there, Doctor, and Ernest Entwhistle was born that day three years after my incarceration when my 'dear' uncle finally secured my release. By then, I was malleable enough to accept his terms – return with him to England, acquire respectability and set the past behind me." A mirthless chuckle escaped him. "He even managed to obtain a knighthood for me. Such are the advantages of having friends in high places."

"But why should he care about you?"

"He needed an heir. We are at least related, though I dare say Sir Ernest is not the shining example of manhood he would have preferred. I am his nephew; that much is true. His sister, my mother, eloped with a poor but talented artist. Her family were scandalised and cut her off from their mercies. Only when he found a use for me did my uncle bother to interfere in my life."

"If it was so objectionable to you, why did you accept?"

A thin smile came to his lips. "I think you would be the first to agree that we have all done things that sit ill with both our natures and our conscience. In my case, the decision was an easy one – I could choose to rot in gaol or I could play my greatest role ever. For a decade and more, I have entranced and beguiled people with my performance. Ask anyone of the character of Sir Ernest and they will all speak the same. If life is but a walking shadow, Doctor, then I have been no poor player."

"What changed?"

His gaze became far-removed and his lips pursed in thought.

"Every actor will tell you that eventually they will become tired of a part. Twelve years is a long time to devote oneself to any role. Sir Ernest was becoming too comfortable; at times I did not know where I ended and he began. It was time to move on, but on my terms. My uncle had promised me his fortune for my compliance and I have assumed on many occasions that he was not long for this world. Alas, have I been deceived! Instead, he lingered, squandering my inheritance on his tasteless frippery. You've been to his home – the man is a philistine."

Inevitably, my thoughts did drift back to Beechcroft and the initial impression I had taken of the man. Eclectic in taste, perhaps; woeful in judgement, certainly. If half this tale were true, Lord Lewis had most assuredly committed a most grievous error of judgement in believing he could shape and control his devious nephew.

"So that is why you wanted these files," said I, unable now to control my anger. "For nothing more than money!"

"You thought you acted for some nobler purpose?" said he in mock sympathy. "Sorry to disappoint you, Doctor. I had placed some small hope in the shock of the business driving my uncle to the grave, but the secrets contained in those files are much more profitable. The people named therein will pay dearly to keep their sordid little lies hidden from their peers. Keeping face is everything today, even if it is but a thin veneer of respectability."

He extended his free hand towards me.

"The files, Doctor."

I remained where I was.

"Why was it necessary to involve me?" I demanded.

He sighed. "I could hardly commit the crime myself, could I? Where should suspicion naturally fall under such circumstances? Even now, I fancy my uncle suspects, but proof is another matter, as you yourself have discovered. This plan of mine has been in preparation for several months; all it needed was opportunity. I had considered employing one of those inferior detective sorts who scrape a living in the shadow of greater men, but then your friend returned and I saw a greater challenge. One may only test one's limits when set against someone of worthy of the effort."

"Holmes would never have been deceived by you," I declared.

"On that point we must disagree, Doctor, although I will grant that it was a concern. Before felicitous fate stepped in and struck your friend down, I was quite convinced that some measure would be necessary on my part to ensure that the odds were stacked a little favourably in my direction. After all, one does not tackle a snake oneself when there is a mongoose to perform the task equally well."

It is true to say that as sick as I already felt, a further tinge of ice was added to the chill that ran through my blood.

"Research is the key to any successful enterprise," he continued. "Given the highly entertaining accounts of Mr Holmes' cases that you supply for the general public, I took a reading of your character, Doctor, as being akin to one of those faithful hounds, who do their utmost to please their masters for very little reward at all."

"That doesn't sound like me at all," I countered.

"Then why are you here, if it did not begin with some misguided sense of loyalty to your friend? Despite his illness, Mr Holmes was intrigued by my letter, was he not?"

"Yes, he was."

He nodded approvingly. "It is gratifying to hear you admit as much considering how much trouble I took in its creation. My own handwriting, made to look like a forgery. Yes, I was extremely pleased with the results."

"Then it was a wasted effort," said I, pleased to be able to deflate the fellow's ego. "Holmes read your character exactly."

I neglected to mention that the extra layer of deception that Mycroft Holmes had noted had been lost on his brother. As ill as he had been, however, he had not failed to deduce the inherent danger in the author's request. With his warning made flesh, I could only berate myself for not heeding his advice sooner.

"There is a certain disappointment to me in what you say," said he. "However, the end result was the same, so I am well able to live with my failure in that respect. You performed admirably, Dr Watson. It is only a shame your friend will not live to hear of it."

"He will," I said obstinately. "His health is improving."

"That is a poor lie, as well you know. Mr Holmes will not leave his hospital alive. Thus, my only problem now is you, Doctor. But how to do it? An accident in the street perhaps? Yes, most acceptable. The number of people killed under the wheels of cabs these days is most appalling. I may even sacrifice several of those files and leave them in your possession to persuade the authorities of your guilt and bring an end to the matter. After all, one must not be greedy when greater principles are at sake."

"No one will ever believe it."

"People believe what they want," he countered. "The evidence of one's own eyes is always more compelling than any harboured doubt."

To my consternation, he dragged a chair from the heap and placed it in the centre of the room.

"Sit," said he.

"Why?"

"Because I'm the one holding the gun. Now sit and place your hands on the arms of chair where I can see them."

He relieved me of my precious bundle of papers and watched me with some amusement as I took my seat.

"Better," he said approvingly.

"I'm not sure how."

He had wandered behind me and the touch of his hand on my shoulder made me jump.

"Oh, come now, Doctor. You've had a very busy day. It must be a relief to take the weight off your feet."

He drifted away and I had no notion of what was happening behind me. I only saw that the path to the door now lay free; except for the thought of that gun at my back, I should have made a run for it. All the same, he could hardly shoot me and claim it later as an accident in the street.

With hindsight, I should have taken my chance. Instead the result of my hesitation was a savage blow to the back of my head that pitched me forwards from the chair and headlong into unconsciousness.

* * *

_Continued in XI: The Locked Room_

_Reviews, thoughts and comments all very welcome and much appreciated!_


	11. XI: The Locked Room

_**The Adventure of Ex-President Murillo's Papers**_

**XI: The Locked Room**

When consciousness did return, it brought with it a fevered throbbing in my head and a feeling as though a number of tiny devils were pounding away with hammers on the back of my eyeballs. For a long time, I lay where I was, prone and face-down on the floor, trying to remember how I had ended up in this inglorious position.

Investigation seemed to be the key to discovering my predicament, but I soon discovered that the greatest of care was required. Every movement, however minute, took time to complete least over-exuberance disturb the grumbling ogre currently lodging in my skull, who awoke with a vengeance at my lack of consideration to send waves of blinding pain through my head and souring my stomach with an overwhelming sense of nausea.

Some gentle probing later, I discovered the reason for the stiff, crackling sensation on the side of my face was due to a quantity of dried blood that had caked on my skin. With the most tentative of touches, I followed its trail to an epicentre of pain on the back of my head where the hair was matted, the skin broken and all excruciatingly tender beneath my questing fingers.

I would have been a poor doctor indeed if I had been unable to diagnose my own condition. I have been concussed before and it was entirely unpleasant then as it was now. With my memory finally creeping back, I vaguely remembered the jarring blow that had left me in this state. On the floor behind the chair in which I had been sat was a broken spelter figure on a white marble base, one corner of which I could just about discern through my blurred vision carried browning traces of blood.

I wondered that he had not killed me with such a blow. A more unsettling thought was that that was exactly what he had intended. Blood spots on the bare floorboards showed how heavily my wound had bled, which must have gone some way to convincing him that he had done me serious harm. Nor were my hands tied, a sure sign that he did not expect me to put up further resistance.

As grateful as I was to the kindly providence that had thought to spare my life, I saw that a little effort was expected from me if I were to extricate myself from this unconscionable mess. Several minutes of squinting at the dancing hands of my watch finally revealed that it was nearly a quarter to twelve. I had been unconscious for over four hours. Any time soon, Entwhistle might be back.

With the first order of business being the necessity of standing up, I inched my way towards an upright position using the chair as a support. No sooner was I up than I was down again and violently ridding myself of the contents of my stomach.

Given a choice, blinded as I was by a crippling headache, sick beyond belief and seeing double, I would much have rather stayed where I was. Only the knowledge that Entwhistle would return to finish what he had started drove me to another attempt.

This time, I made it up and stayed up. Several unsteady paces across the floor brought me to the door, which resisted my feeble effort at opening. The wood was somewhat decayed, but the lock was strong enough and the glimmer of space I saw through the keyhole told me that Entwhistle had had the sense to take the key with him.

Glancing around, the only other means of escape from the room was a small window through which streamed a shaft of moonlight. Had I been a skinny child of five, I would have been through that window and long gone. Being a rather stouter man of considerable years, I would be lucky to get my arm through the opening, let alone the rest of my body.

My attention was thus focused back on the door. It occurred to me that I had several options. I could wait for Entwhistle to return and rush him in the hope of overpowering him. On a good day, that would have been a distinct possibility; given my current condition, however, I did not give much for my chances, especially if he brought with him his gun. The only alternative was to effect a means of escape before he came back, which was going to prove easier said than done.

I took up the chair and tried using it as a battering ram. The door held, and a ferocious and debilitating thumping began in my head. It occurred to me that I was hopelessly trapped, and no one in the world knew where I was. In all probability, I was going to die this night and left in the street as the victim of an accident, who just happened to be carrying incriminating documents on his person.

I did not see how it could really get much worse.

As I rested my hand on the back of the chair, something made a crackling sound within my pocket. I pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, made crisp by the lines of writing. I could just about make out the name that had caught my attention earlier: Mr Sherlock Holmes.

If anything, it only served to depress my spirits even more. I thought of his distress when I had forced him to accept treatment and how he had implored me to remain with him. I thought of him dying alone in a friendless world, slowing slipping from life in the company of strangers. I thought of myself, making promises that I could not keep, neither able to keep myself out of danger nor take care of my ailing friend.

What anger it fired within me I do not care to describe. The sheet of paper was screwed into the tiniest ball my fist could manage and it flew across the room to end up back on that pile of accursed files. I glared at them, willing them and their contents to the fires of hell, and then it struck me that they might yet prove my salvation.

If I could not force the door, then perhaps I could weaken it enough to allow me to break out. With neither the strength nor a weighty object to hand, I would have to trust the task to fire.

I returned the balled sheet to my pocket for safe-keeping and began to shred the pages of the uppermost file. Destroyed or returned, the papers of ex-President Murillo would not be falling into the wrong hands again. With this impromptu kindling, I wedged it around the base of the door and then fished out my match case. Co-ordination seemed to have deserted me until, after several wasted matches and a good deal of frustration later, the flame caught and began hungrily to consume the paper.

With hindsight, I can say with all sincerity that it was not the best idea I have ever had. The fire spread rapidly, first to the door, where the paint began to crack and peel with alarming haste, then to the door jambs and then to the rapidly blackening floorboards. Whatever substance had been used to paint the woodwork began to fill the confines of the room with an acrid, foul-smelling smoke that left me choking. With the oxygen rapidly running out, I put my elbow through the glass of the window to gain a little fresh air and stop my imminent asphyxiation.

The little breeze that entered through the broken pane only served to fan the flames and distribute hot ash about the room. The assorted clutter was as dry as tinder and it took only one stray fiery fragment to spread the fire further. I was now trapped in a locked, burning room. If anything, my situation had worsened.

Before I went up in flames with the rest of the contents of room, I was determined to give that door one last try. I stuffed what remained of the files down the front of my waistcoat, picked up the chair and charged at the door. Weakened by the fire, a sizeable crack appeared down the centre. I was half-choked, my eyes were pouring with water and my head throbbed, but I could not afford to waste this opportunity.

Once again I tried my weight against the door and, to my sheer and utter relief, it gave.

Traces of blackened wood clung to the hinges and the lock remained in place, but the opening was large enough for me to escape. I pulled my coat up over my head and rushed through the flames. The smell of scorching material accompanied my passage and no sooner was I out than I was forced to peel off my smouldering coat and stamp on it to put out the fire.

Finally free of the room, I was now in a smoke-filled attic, whose rafters glowed an ominous red as the fire spread ever further. It was patently obvious that I had added arson to my long list of crimes. The best I could do now was to warn the members, evacuate the club and hope the governors of Cloades would understand that there had been mitigating circumstances when considering my actions in destroying their building.

For the moment, however, I could not afford to linger. I hurried to the best of my ability down the stairs, bursting out into the corridor where panicked members near knocked me from my feet in their headlong flight from the smoke that had drifted down from the upper storeys. The building was rapidly emptying and my fears that anyone would be caught in the blaze were mercifully unfounded.

I followed the others out into the street, where a dull rain moistened my grimy face and stung my sore eyes as I looked up at the burning roof of Cloades. The clatter of bells heralded the arrival of the fire brigade and we were soon being told to stand back out of harm's way.

We made quite a sight that night. Gentlemen shivering in damp evening wear, the old doorman sat on the pavement watching the blaze with great interest, and a number of idlers, who had come to watch the building burn. One fellow, a short man with hair and whiskers as red as the fire above and an angry boil on his bulbous nose, particularly caught my attention as he moved almost furtively amongst us, looking from one face to another. He came to me and our gaze met as I stared back into the startled eyes of Entwhistle.

The most consummate actor may transform his appearance in a number of ways; indeed, Holmes has done so on many occasions. What even he has never been able to change, however, is that particular look of the eyes. Alter what one may, but the eyes remain the same, those mirrors of the soul that give to each face individuality and distinctiveness.

I looked back at Entwhistle and he saw that I had recognised him. Whether it was his surprise at seeing a walking corpse or alarm at what I might do, he began to back away. I reached to grab him, the architect of my recent venture into criminality, and he danced away further still, out beyond the crowd, out into the road, his wide, terrified eyes never leaving my face. One step further and he was in the path of an oncoming hansom cab.

In my consternation, I called out a warning to him. Too late, he turned in time to see the terrified horse stand up on its back legs. Iron-shod hooves flailed wildly and Entwhistle went down without a sound.

A cry went up from the crowd and another dimension of horror was added to the evening. Despite my revulsion for the man, my professional instincts drew me to his side. A pool had already collected around his head and the reflected light of the flaming roof gave him a fiery halo. I checked his pulse; not unexpectedly, I found nothing.

One side of his head was a bloody mess where the horse's hooves had dealt him a fatal blow. The impact had ripped away the false nose and whiskers and I was left staring down into what was left of the face of the doorman I had seen that night outside Cloades, a rare glimpse of the real man who had lived a lie all those years as Sir Ernest Entwhistle.

There was a certain irony in the manner of his death being the same as he had planned for me. However, with his blood on my hands and the sight of that battered face before me, I felt no sense of triumph or gloating satisfaction at his end. As strange as it may sound, my mind instead revolted against the senseless waste of it all.

I could hate him for what he tried to do to me, for what he had planned to do to Holmes, but a more detached viewpoint made me question what had driven him to plot and scheme and had ultimately led to his miserable death on the street on a drizzle-soaked London night. Greed is a terrible temptress, with its promise of wealth and independence that those grubby secrets contained within the files of a fallen dictator could provide and which languished now against my pounding heart. They were the very means of damnation, and I was heartily sick of them.

I longed to be free of their malign influence, but a greater longing held sway over my soul. A day and a night had passed since I had last visited Holmes, and with all that had happened between then and now, it felt much longer.

I was gripped by the overwhelming desire to see him, if necessary to force myself into the ward of the sick and dying to sit with him and let him know that he had not been abandoned or forgotten. If go he must, then it would be with a friend at his side who would be forever grieved by his departure a second time from his wretched life.

With this in mind, I set my face against the rain and started the long walk to the hospital.

* * *

_Continued in XII: The Hospital_

_Reviews are always welcome and greatly appreciated!_


	12. XII: The Hospital

_**The Adventure of Ex-President Murillo's Papers**_

**XII: The Hospital**

There is little detail I can recall of the journey that took me from the burning ruin of Cloades, along wet and familiar streets to the great slab of a building that was the University Hospital, save that it took an interminable amount of time.

I staggered along, dizzy, aching and in constant terror of collapse, the very picture of an inebriated undesirable, for whom no cab would stop. I dare say looking back I cannot blame them for refusing the fare, but at the time, I fell to cursing their pause that delayed my arrival at my friend's side.

The relentless walk and continuing rain did, however, go some way to clearing the clouds that fogged my brain and, although still far from free of the pounding in my head, I could at least see a little clearer. When I finally stumbled into the hospital's dimmed hall, my appearance continued to generate speculation to the point of irritation. The porter on night-duty asked if I needed to see a doctor and seemed greatly taken aback when I confounded his audacity by declaring that I was qualified enough to tend my own health.

He made no further quarrel with that and my pride in my small victory lasted until I caught a glimpse of my face in the glass. I was indeed a sight. A soot-streaked, blood-stained, wild-eyed stranger clad in a battered and fire-damaged overcoat stared back at me. No wonder the porter had been concerned.

Some small, vague explanation of my encounter with a fire garnered his sympathy enough for him to point me in the direction of a consulting room, where I found water to wash away the traces of my night's ordeal. I could do nothing about my clothes, except to shed my ruined coat and hope that my crumpled appearance did not raise too many eyebrows. A surgical apron covered the worse of the damage and I emerged looking a good deal more respectable than I had entered.

Mercifully, the hospital at night was quiet and I encountered few others as I walked its empty corridors. Snores and the occasional moan came to my ears from the wards I passed, where tired-eyed nurses looked up briefly from their charges to spare me a cursory glance.

In no short time, I found myself outside the doors of the isolation ward, donning a cloth mask about my nose and mouth from the pile left for those who ventured within to care for the dying. More than ever, I was painfully aware of the fierce throb of my head and the almost queasy feeling of dread that was squeezing at my innards.

This was no place for the faint-hearted. I knew of doctors and nurses who had braved this diseased environment only to succumb to the same illnesses that ailed their patients. There was no small risk attached to what I was about to do; all the same, I would not permit myself to turn away.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed through the doors and into the ward.

If ever a place existed that was Dante's vision incarnate, then surely it was here. I was struck immediately by the over-powering and mingling smells of carbolic, urine and festering vomit. My already-delicate stomach revolted and it was all I could to do to prevent myself retching into the nearest bowl.

The light was muted to an eerie yellow glow that flickered with the uneven flames of the gas jets and cast distorted shadows onto the curtains that surrounded the patients' beds. I was very conscious of the sounds of their distress, a constant murmur forming a symphony of misery in keeping with the despondency of their surroundings. Worst of all was the look in their eyes, of fear and helplessness in the face of something that consumed them and scorned our best efforts to destroy.

I had no idea where Holmes would be and out of necessity had to investigate every curtained bed. In the first, I found the dead body of a young woman, a glistening crust of vomit still adhering to her mouth. I carefully replaced the cover over her face and moved to the next bed, where a boy with the high colour and vivid rash of scarlet fever slept uneasily, his small hands shifting nervously on the white sheets and lips moving in silent conversation with his dreams.

Further on, a nurse was struggling to contain a man in the throes of a spasm. His body jerked uncontrollably as his rigid, outstretched arms clawed at some unseen demon between himself and the ceiling. Her eyes implored for my help and I did my best to aid her, although it was clear that our combined efforts would be of little assistance as a long sigh escaped the man's parted lips and his body relaxed into the embrace of death.

Leaving her to provide him with a little dignity in his passing, I moved on, seeking one face amidst this host of misery. Finally, I found Holmes in the last bed at the rear of the ward and the sight of him took me greatly aback.

As pale as the sheets in which he lay, nevertheless he seemed entirely at peace, so much so that for a second or two, I had to seek the signs of life in his rising and falling chest to reassure myself that he was not dead. Indeed, he seemed surprising well for a patient in his condition.

I was inordinately pleased to find that I would not be sitting a deathbed vigil this night, but at the same time was entirely mystified. The symptoms of hospital fever are marked enough: sustained high fever, delirium, headaches, muscle pain, cough, chills, sensitivity to light and the belated appearance of a rash on the body. Yet even a cursory examination revealed none of these. A nagging concern started to itch at the back of my mind, telling me that all was not as it should be.

Scraps of remembered conversations came drifting back to me, of Entwhistle taunting me about the terrible diseases one may come into contact with in a hospital, of his assertion that he had been considering some means of staking the odds in his favour, of his utter conviction that Holmes would not leave this place alive. A very real and frightening possibility struck me, one that I could scarce countenance.

I had never questioned that the recovering patient I had left that afternoon had fallen so quickly into the grip of illness. I had blithely accepted their word for it and had set my face to the consideration of my criminal undertaking. Even his brother had asked whether Holmes was actually ill, a question I had taken to derive from an understanding of the man rather than a genuine inquiry as to his health. I did not want to believe I had erred, but clearly I had not been as solicitous as I ought.

A more detailed examination confirmed my fears. Where I had expected to find a raging temperature, his skin was cool to the touch. His breathing was regular and not tainted by any worrying rattle from his lungs. Harder to assess was his internal state since even the most vigorous shaking would not rouse him. The only conclusion I could draw from that was that he was heavily drugged, not to alleviate the severity of his symptoms, but merely to keep him quiet and contained in this place.

Under different conditions, I should not have been so ill-mannered to the kindly nurse who came over to inquire whether she could be of assistance. But my mind was in a storm, reeling at my own ineptitude and the dire situation in which my rank stupidity had placed my friend.

"This patient," I said abruptly, "why is he here? He doesn't appear to be ill."

"I was told he was under observation," she replied.

"Under observation? In an isolation ward?"

Her eyes assumed a look of uneasiness at the direction of our conversation.

"How have you been treating him?" I demanded.

"With morphine to stabilise his condition, as the doctor prescribed."

I already knew the answer, but still I had to ask.

"Which doctor?"

"Dr Harwood."

It is the strangest of sensations when the veils are lifted from one's eyes and the truth may be seen for what it is. I imagine each man may describe the experience differently, whether in terms of elation, satisfaction, the greatest joy or the greatest sorrow. For myself, it started with disbelief, worked its way through self-disgust and contrition, and from thence to rage and anger.

"Get a mask on him this instant!" I ordered. "This man is not ill. He has no place being here!"

I pushed past the startled nurse and headed out of the ward. I barely knew where I was going, save for that certainty that Harwood was likely in the building as he had been on that evening when I had brought Holmes into his care. I found his office, entered without knocking and faced him across the desk.

He took one look at my expression and I saw the realisation come to him that he had been discovered. He tried to regain his composure with a forced smile that did not reach his fearful eyes.

"Well, Watson, I didn't think to see you here so late," he said with difficulty. "Are you quite well?"

"Forget about me. What have you done to Mr Sherlock Holmes?"

He had to lay down his pen to stop the uncontrollable shaking that had started in his hands. "He's very ill. I doubt –"

"Don't lie to me, Harwood! I've just been to see him. He's in better shape than I am. There's nothing wrong with him!"

Harwood's mouth moved to words that would not be spoken. "No, you're mistaken," he protested finally.

I could listen to his lies no more. What little was left of my self-restraint evaporated. I grabbed him across the desk and hauled him up by his lapels.

"Watson, please, you don't understand," he yelped.

"No, I don't. Explain it to me, Harwood. Explain why you put a healthy patient into an isolation ward and left him to die."

"I had to. I had no choice."

Perhaps it was hearing him say that this callous act had been entirely deliberate. Perhaps it was that my head ached with a fury, blinding me and stripping away any sense of control. Whatever the cause, it ended with me hitting him in the face so hard that blood coursed from his nostrils and he fell back against the wall, where he slid down to end in a crumpled heap on the floor. I rounded on him, seeing the very real panic in his eyes and the trembling hands that rose in vain to prevent me dragging him upright and propping him up against his desk.

"I'm sorry," he pleaded.

"What sort of doctor are you?" I yelled.

"One with five daughters."

I stared at him, not immediately comprehending his answer.

"This man, he came to me and told me to ensure that Mr Holmes did not leave the hospital. He said…" He gulped heavily. "He threatened my family, John. God in heaven, he said he would use oil of vitriol if I did not do as he said."

Tears had collected in his eyes and his breathing was racked by distress. Of all the motives I had imagined, this had not been one of them. I released him and he fell into his chair, where he buried his face in his hands and let out a choked sob.

"God forgive me," he implored. "But what was I to do?"

"You could have told someone."

"Who?"

"Me for a start. You would have saved everyone a good deal of trouble."

"I dared not. I did not know who this man was, save that he knew me and knew where I lived. I could not take the chance that he would hurt my children. Having your friend confined to the isolation ward was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. But I did nothing to physically harm him, believe me."

"Except expose him to any number of diseases. If he dies because of you –"

Harwood moaned softly and nodded. "I know. It is my fault, I freely admit it and will take my punishment. But I make no apology for protecting my family. Hate me if you must, inform the authorities, I don't care. Only know that I acted out of fear and love for my daughters."

"I don't dispute that."

He glanced up at me with red-rimmed eyes.

"Then what will you do?" he asked pitifully.

In all honesty, I was too shaken and perturbed to make any promises to which I could be bound. As much as I loathed the man and wanted to vent my unspeakable anger on his very person, the better part of me spoke that he had acted as anyone would do, as indeed I might have done, had someone threatened my family in such a way.

"This man," I said with a sigh. "I take it he was small and dark-haired?"

"Yes, how did you know?"

"You can rest assured that he will not trouble you or your family again. As for Mr Holmes, I want him discharged immediately and I will take him back to Baker Street."

"But he might be contagious. You might contract whatever disease he may have caught."

"Equally, he might be free of infection. I'll take that risk."

"And if he falls ill?"

"Then I will tend him. Better that than he remains where he is."

Harwood rose shakily to his feet, only to hesitate. "What about me?"

He stared at me, the hopeless look of a man resigned to his fate in his eyes. Sympathy and contempt tore at my soul in equal measure and I did not know which would carry the day. For myself, I hurt and was tired, not simply physically, but of this glimpse into the baseness of human nature that sets one life against another and leaves so much devastation in its wake.

For now, I lacked the will to either condemn or reprieve. I could offer Harwood no consolation, a fact he accepted without complaint or recrimination. All I wanted was to get Holmes out of this place, and crawl into my own bed and pray for a better tomorrow.

The former I could just about manage; the latter would have to wait.

* * *

_Continued in XIII: The Next Day_

_Reviews are always welcome and greatly appreciated!_

_In case anyone is wondering, hospital fever, along with ship fever and gaol fever, is otherwise known as epidemic typhus._


	13. XIII: The Next Day

_**The Adventure of Ex-President Murillo's Papers**_

**XIII: The Next Day**

If it is true what they say that there is no peace for the wicked, then I must count myself amongst their company. I wanted nothing more than to find a comfortable place to lay my head and sleep my aches and pains away, and yet I could not rest.

I did not follow Harwood back to the isolation ward, perhaps unwisely, although I was confident that his remorse had been genuine enough to ensure that he would try no further act of harm against my friend. At least, that was what I told myself.

The reality was that I had reached the limits of my endurance. I wandered out into the corridor, found a bench and fairly collapsed onto it. Sleep dragged at my eyelids and my head was beset by a pounding worthy of an army drummer boy. It was in this state that Dr Tillings found me and make some biting remark about my marring the hitherto pristine hospital walls with smears of my blood.

He did, however, offer to tend my wound, which, despite his almost palpable dislike of me, he did perform with a commendable expediency and efficiency. His other advice, that I should spend a few days in bed to recover least I fall foul to some terrible fit of brain fever, seemed superfluous under the circumstances and sounded rather too much like wishful thinking. Given his earlier disapproval to my chosen field of endeavour, I gave him the benefit of the doubt in his believing that I had strayed so far from my calling that I forgotten even the most basic of treatments.

In another matter, one that had started to nag at my insides after Harwood's revelation, Tillings proved to be invaluable.

"Mr Holmes," I asked, trying to erase from my tone all sense of my inner turmoil, "you attended him after the initial operation, didn't you?"

He spared me barely a nod while in the process of gathering the now blood-stained rag with which he had cleansed my head injury.

"I suppose his infection came as quite a surprise," I persisted.

He glanced up at me, cold hatred burning in his grey eyes.

"What are you implying, Doctor?" he hissed. "That we routinely infect our patients so that we have the pleasure of draining pus from their guts?"

"No, not at all."

"Then what did you mean? I should hardly bare to cast aspersions on other people's abilities where I in your position. As it happens, I supervised Mr Holmes's care with great diligence. I wish to go far in my profession, unlike some people, and it would do my career little good should so celebrated a patient die whilst under my care."

I sighed and relented, pleased have my fears disproved. With hindsight, it had occurred to me that the infection that had necessitated Holmes' second operation had been a little too convenient. Considering the events of the past few days, I could not be blamed for my concerns.

At times, however, there is no sinister explanation, other than the obvious, that disease had found a way into his wound and spread its malignancy throughout. I had seen it occur too many times to know that it could happen even with the best of attention and care.

Certainly, its effects had been convenient for Harwood, in that he was able to move a supine and unsuspecting patient into harm's way. Entwhistle had enjoyed the luck of the Devil in that respect and I could only hope that this malign influence had ended with his death in the street a few hours ago.

A more benign providence was watching over me that night for I did at least make it back to Baker Street without suffering collapse. The last thing I truly remember after seeing Holmes safely installed and resting in his own bed was an incredible feeling of giddiness that made our sitting room whirl before my eyes like so many riders on a carousel. I know I made it to the sofa, for that was where Mrs Hudson said she had found me when she returned with the tea and had seen to it that I was protected from the chill of the evening by covering me with a blanket.

I managed to snatch a few hours sleep before I was roused again by our apologetic landlady, informing me in the most anxious terms that Mr Holmes was not well at all. I must admit that the sight of his glistening brow and restless twitching sent a chill through me in the certainty that my intervention had been too late and that now he lay in the grip of some terrible affliction. I was quite prepared to pack Mrs Hudson off to her sister, barricade the house and wait for the disease to run it course, claiming either one or both of us in the process.

As my addled brain sorted through a list of possible suspects, it occurred to me that perhaps I was being precipitate in my diagnosis. In the rare moments when Holmes was lucid enough to make sense, he complained of pains in his muscles and the most excruciating cramps in his stomach. Violently cold one moment, he would kick the blankets away the next and declare himself to be tortured by the very fires of hell, making me think he was in the throes of some strange malarial attack.

At his worst, he was ruder and more ill-mannered than usual, at times lapsing into an aggression that even the knowledge of being free of the hospital would not temper. When he started to heave and tremble with such severity that I thought I have to restrain him for his own good, I dimly began to see what grievous malady plagued him. By relying heavily on morphine before and during his stay in hospital, an old demon had been awakened and now it screamed its need for immediate gratification.

I was faced with an infuriating dilemma. My concern was that without the drug and in his more unquiet moments, he would tear apart his stitches in his restlessness and undo the healing that was already underway. Giving it to him and thus feeding this obscene need and prolonging his agony sat ill with my conscience. I had witnessed his struggles against the cravings before and knew the very great strain it produced upon his constitution.

Faced with the lesser of two evils, I chose to alleviate his sufferings. I doubted whether he would thank me, but Sherlock Holmes well and healed from his operation would be better able to cope with the aftermath than my trying to deal with both at the same time. I took no satisfaction in seeing him slip easily into an untroubled sleep by my hand, still tormented as I was by the memories of the last time I had had to administer such a dose and the chain of events that followed.

If Holmes was at peace, however, then I was still in torment. The few hours sleep I had been allowed had gone some way to improving my own disposition, although I was aware that I was far from recovered. My head was thick and a peculiar lethargy had settled about my person that boded ill for the coming days. I was sluggish, drowsy and depressed of spirits, and still I could not rest.

My first order of business with Holmes settled was the return of the files. His brother looked suitably askance when I presented him with the bundle of incomplete, battered, smoke-stained, rain-muddied folders, but nevertheless promised to do what he could. I took this to mean that I should soon expect a visit from Lestrade, who would have to revise his assessment of my character in the light of recent events, to clear up certain details concerning my activities.

I did not anticipate that that interview should take place so quickly. I had stopped only to purchase newspapers and a few supplies on my way home from the Diogenes Club, and yet my return to Baker Street coincided with my meeting the Inspector on my own doorstep.

I steeled myself for what promised to be a most trying time and invited him upstairs. Other matters seemed to be foremost in his mind that afternoon, for he refused graciously enough and appeared disinclined to linger.

"I won't, thank you anyway, Doctor," said he. "I only stopped by to let you know that that business with the missing files has been cleared up."

I felt an expression of amazement take shape on my features. Mycroft Holmes had indeed worked wonders if news of their return had spread so far and so quickly.

"Yes, a curious thing that," Lestrade went on. "It seems someone just handed them in. These old villains do have conscience where their country is concerned, after all."

"Incredible," I said. "Will you be pursuing the thief?"

Lestrade shook his head. "He'll have covered his tracks by now, Doctor. I'll put the word out, but I doubt it'll produce much. Anyway, the files have been returned and that's all that matters. It's give and take in these sort of cases – they've given the files back, so we'll take no further action."

"Glad to hear it," I murmured, as indeed would my erstwhile partner-in-crime, Mr Jim Hancock, who I guessed would not now be gracing me with the dubious pleasure of his company.

"Yes, Lord Lewis was pleased too," Lestrade went on, "although he's still sore about the missing necklace. I dare say it will turn up eventually."

"Most likely."

"And it's a good thing too that this business is over and done with, because there was all hell to pay when I got in this morning. There was a case of arson at the Cloades Club last night."

"Oh, really?" I said weakly.

"Pretty straight forward as it transpires," said he with a desultory sniff. "We've already caught the culprit. Well, I say caught, but he didn't put up much of a struggle. These arsonists like to hang around the scene to witness their handiwork and this chap got so carried away that he stepped right out in front a cab and fair had his brains knocked out."

I thought back to that night and the memory of the sight of Entwhistle's broken and bloodied head.

"Have you been able to identify him, Inspector?"

"That's the funny thing, Doctor. No one seems to know who he is at all. He had on some sort of disguise – whiskers, false nose and the like – but no one I've interviewed ever remembers seeing him about the place. Why he should have picked on that particular club we may never know. As it is, he'll have to go in an unmarked grave."

"Tragic," I murmured.

"Talking of which, how is Mr Holmes?"

Lestrade's eyes had lifted briefly to the upstairs windows.

"He's home, but how did you know?"

"One gets to hear about these things," said he assuredly. "Is he…?" He hesitated and his manner became somewhat nervous. "Well, the last you told me he was on Death's doorstep with some fearful fever. I'm not one for gossip, but there's a rumour making the rounds that he's come home to die."

This then was the reason for Lestrade's reluctance to venture inside.

"No, Lestrade," I replied, seeking to allay his fears. "He's…"

I hesitated. These were still early days and I could not pronounce with any certainty about Holmes' condition until at least a week had passed to give whatever illness he might be incubating a chance to reveal its ugly head.

"Well, he's resting," I said finally. "He's comfortable enough at the moment."

"And you're looking after him?"

I nodded.

"That's a comfort," said Lestrade affably. "At least he's in good hands."

I gave a mirthless laugh at hearing this. On the evidence of the past few days, I could have easily argued with him on that point and claimed an easy victory.

"I must be going," said he. "You take care now, Dr Watson. You aren't looking too well yourself, sir."

On this happy note, he departed, leaving me to wonder what he had noticed about my person that I had not. Granted, my eyes felt heavy and I was still plagued by a steadily-pounding headache, but these I had attributed to my lack of sleep and recent ordeal.

Under such circumstances, a good meal and an afternoon nap invariably works wonders. In my case, however, I awoke with an elevated temperature and a peculiar tenderness and prickling sensation of the skin around my midriff. A tentative investigation with fingertips told of small, sore lumps that necessitated my going in search of a mirror.

It is true to say that my hands were trembling as I fiddled with recalcitrant buttons. My mind was burning with the images of suffering I had encountered in the isolation ward, of the deceased sheet-covered woman, of the child with scarlet fever, of the man who had breathed his last in my arms. Too late now, I tried to recall whether I had thought to wash my hands after leaving that place of misery. I had thought Holmes would be the carrier of disease to our quarters, but now I saw how easily it could be me.

Steadying myself with a deep breath, I peeled back my shirt and found myself staring at a raised, mottled rash that had appeared on the left side of my torso.

* * *

_Continued in XIV: The End of the Affair_

_Reviews greatly appreciated and always welcome._


	14. XIV: The End of the Affair

_**The Adventure of Ex-President Murillo's Papers**_

**XIV: The End of the Affair**

Given recent events, I may be forgiven for admitting to a sense of relief when I was able to diagnose my condition as the onset of that ailment known as Shingles. I spent the better part of nine days enduring the kind of misery akin to being simultaneously lanced by a thousand red-hot needles. Sudden stabs of pain were mercifully interspersed with longer periods of tingling or numbness, all accompanied by the most ferocious exhaustion that would sneak up on me quite unexpectedly and render me as meek as any newborn lamb.

It was uncomfortable, but I knew it could have been much worse. Looking back, I see now how the strain of my misadventure, coupled with the events and cases leading up to it, must have had a more debilitating effect on my constitution than I had anticipated. It was the final blow in a long line of worry and woe, and I could do little else than to submit to its greater will.

As it happened, I was glad for the excuse to spend some time in quiet reflection. Despite my fears, Holmes continued to show steady improvement and did not display any symptoms of having contracted the fearful diseases to which he had been exposed. His operation scar was healing nicely, this time without the added complication of infection, and I had been able to slowly wean him from his dependency on morphine by reducing both quantity and frequency. After a difficult first week, he was sufficiently recovered to begin leaving his bed, with a great deal of assistance from me, to join me in the sitting room.

Initially, he was very much weakened. Enforced starvation had stripped further weight from his already lean frame so that he was as thin as a lath. The effort of staying awake required a good deal more than he could manage and several times in the course of reading aloud an article from the newspaper for him, I looked up to see that he had fallen asleep.

He had, however, been able to remain conscious long enough for me to enlighten him as the events that had taken place during his prolonged stay in hospital. He had listened with half-closed eyes and had made very little comment, leaving me in no doubt as to his opinion of the business. In such cases, I have always found his silence to be as indicative as any of his words. Clearly, he thought I had performed most badly, and in that judgement I could not blame him.

For myself, I was heartily ashamed of the whole affair. None of the events cast me in a good light at all. Elsewhere, the papers were full of the news of the mysterious disappearance of Sir Ernest Entwhistle, a grievous blow to his uncle, as it was said, coming so soon after his own misfortune, and for a while there was much speculation as to the man's fate. I could have told them, but did not, as I did not tell Lestrade about the whereabouts of Lord Lewis' missing necklace. Having been delivered once from an awkward situation, it is never wise to tempt fate by committing the same folly twice.

Nor had I done anything about Harwood. I told myself that my illness and enforced confinement had held my hand, but in truth I was still torn as to my decision. I had toyed with the notion of reporting his actions to the hospital governors and had convinced myself that little good would come of it. He had only to say that his was a misdiagnosis, made out of concern for the safety of others rather than out of malice, and it would fall to me to prove otherwise.

Also too, I thought of his family and his five daughters for whom he had been willing to sacrifice my friend's life and his future happiness. Had our situations been reversed, I hoped I would have had the strength of character to act differently; then again, I was equally certain I would not. Marriage and family changes one's priorities and things that would have seemed unthinkable in one's bachelor days suddenly become justifiable when set against the lives of loved ones. Although my first marriage had not been blessed with children, I did understand; I only wondered if Holmes would.

While I prevaricated, matters were taken out of my hands. By the end of the second week, I had improved enough to venture out to run some small errands and had returned to find a letter had arrived for me in my absence. It was from Harwood, informing me that he had resigned his post and intended sailing for Australia with his family, where he had been offered a position in a teaching hospital. He did not state it, but from the tone of his letter, it was clear that he considered his fate to rest very much in my hands. He would go unless I intervened to stop him.

The decision I had been avoiding for days was finally required.

My conscience told one way, my compassion the other. I stared out the street, watching the world in all its infinite variety flit by in secure and happy ignorance of the transience of life and that thin divide that marks one man out a saint and another a sinner. Harwood had undeniably erred and it could have cost the life of Sherlock Holmes. Whether it was my place to deny his new start in another country, I still was unsure.

Assistance comes in the most unexpected guises, in my case from a familiar, albeit weakened, voice that cut into my thoughts and roused me from my brown study.

"Watson, you present the appearance of a man in the midst of a dilemma."

I turned to find that Holmes had slunk into the room as quietly as any cat on the prowl and now stood some few feet away, clad in nightshirt and dressing gown, one hand resting on the back of the sofa, the other supporting himself on his cane.

"My dear Holmes, what you are doing out of bed?" I chided him, hurrying over to help him manoeuvre himself onto the settee. "You should not be up."

He brushed my concern aside. "I have had enough sleep in the past week or so to last me a lifetime. No more! I begin to grow too comfortable issuing my orders from my sickbed like some woeful malinger. Besides," he said, with a sly smile, "I sensed developments in the case. You have a letter from your medical colleague?"

"He is not my colleague," I replied tersely. "And how did you know?"

"It was an entirely elementary deduction based on the careful observation of your habits over the past few days. I heard you return, enter this room and place several items on the table as is your usual manner."

He indicated the parcels I had yet to unwrap.

"Invariably after such an outing, you come to inquire after my health and we participate in this little dialogue where I assure you that I am feeling much improved, you ask whether there is anything I need, I again assure you that I am quite well and so on and so forth. That did not happen today; therefore, something troubling has interrupted the natural flow of your existence. Since I know of nothing else so pressing upon your soul, this troubling matter could only concern your former associate, Harwood. We have had no visitors, so I deduced a letter, which I still see in your hand. Would you care to share the contents?"

Despite my misgivings, I found I could not refuse his interest. In fact, whatever he had asked of me at that moment, I doubted whether I could have denied him. Recovery following so soon after the prospect of loss has a way of weakening one's resolve to lamentable levels.

He ran his eye over the letter and passed it back to me. "What will you do?"

"I haven't decided yet."

His lips pursed in the manner of introspection and it was a moment before he spoke again. "Do nothing," said he. "Let him go."

"What? But, Holmes, you could have died."

He shrugged his shoulders lightly. "And yet I did not. None of us are any the worse for his misguided actions."

I shook my head, still tormented by indecision. "What if it happens again? What if another is not so fortunate?"

"Men in possession of Entwhistle's calibre for wickedness are fortunately rare. While it is difficult for us to determine with any degree of certainty whether Harwood would ever encounter such a person again in the course of his career, we may at least say that should such a misfortune befall him a second time, then the benefit of experience will equip him to better deal with the situation."

I glanced at him curiously. "You are in a forgiving mood. That is most unlike you."

"Do unto others, Watson," said he reprovingly. "I would like to think that the same consideration would be extended to me had I placed the welfare of those dearest to me before that of a stranger. In particular, I find myself questioning what I would have done had Entwhistle succeeded in despatching you. I fear my thoughts turn towards the darkest regions of my soul."

I noted his careful avoidance of a more explicit term for my possible fate and wondered how keenly that prospect had affected him.

"Well then, what would you have done?" I asked. "No doubt you would have handled the situation good deal more skilfully than my poor efforts."

"I do not say that. In fact, I dare say I would not have done so well, although certain aspects of the case do make me question your capacity for logical reasoning. Setting fire to a locked room in which you were trapped, for instance. Tsk, tsk! Most unwise."

"It would not have been my first choice," I admitted ruefully. "My only defence was that I was not thinking clearly at the time."

"An accusation which may be levelled at us all," said he with a grim nod. "My own part in this little drama has been most remiss. In fact, one might say I have fallen far beyond the level of professionalism which your reading public has come to expect of me."

"Holmes, you were ill."

"Pshaw, my dear fellow, that has become a convenient excuse for every idle blunderer in this lackadaisical age of ours. No, no, a man must take responsibility for his own actions. I knew there was something amiss with that letter Entwhistle had contrived and for the life of me I could not see what it was."

"If it's any consolation, your brother was misled too. He was sure it was someone attempting to implicate Entwhistle rather than the man himself deliberately trying to deceive."

Holmes grinned wolfish. "I will tell him that next time I see him. I'm sure he will find it most amusing."

"I'd rather you didn't, especially as he has been exceedingly helpful throughout this whole affair."

"Ah, well, we must all err occasionally. It strikes me that this Entwhistle was a master in the art of deception and his death must be counted as a great loss, if only for those with an interest in the workings of the criminal mind. Layers of meaning, Watson, that's where he caught us out. In trying to be too clever, we tripped over our own feet. The only thing to be said in my favour was that I did try to warn you in the absolute certainty that you would try to undertake the case in my absence."

I gave a mirthless laugh at his pronouncement. "As it happened, you were correct when you said it was wise not to put oneself in any man's power."

"I said that? Dear me, that sounds almost sage. Still, it is true enough whatever the circumstances. I could readily testify to its veracity."

The critical edge that had crept into his tone cut me to the quick.

"I take it you refer to my forcing you to have the operation? You still hold that against me?"

Holmes sniffed delicately. "I seem to recall that the addendum I added to that statement was 'for good or evil'. Well, you surely acted out of good. In fact, I counted upon it."

"I afraid I don't follow your meaning."

"It pains me to admit it, but the simple fact of the matter is that I somewhat manipulated your good nature, my dear fellow, in the certain knowledge that you would be able to do what I could not."

"You mean you knew what my reaction would be?"

"Yes, indeed. I knew my condition was worsening, but lacked the inclination or means to do anything about it. On the day of your return, I purposely did not take relief for the pain. It really was quite unbearable, you know. I trust I did not become too maudlin?"

If he did not remember, it was not for me to tell him. Better that I bear the memory of his panic and distress than that he be tormented by the thought that I had caught a glimpse of the person behind the steely façade of invulnerability.

"Thus you found me in a debilitated state and pursued the only logical course of action, for which I am eternally grateful," he went on. "Despite appearances to the contrary, I had no wish to perish, when there are so many cases for us yet to encounter."

He had been avoiding my gaze by finding great interest in picking idly at a loose thread on his dressing gown, but now he glanced up at me.

"You are angry and for that I do not blame you," said he.

"No, not angry, just puzzled," I admitted. "It would have been easier had you told me of your condition. You could try having a little faith in me, Holmes."

"I believe I did that when I counted on your good sense and compassion in not abandoning a most foolish friend to his fate."

Sherlock Holmes is ever the master of understatement and I dimly discerned from this comment that I was meant to derive some comfort from it. I saw now that I had entirely misread the situation. Far from a want of trust, he had placed in me his absolute faith to the point where he had entrusted me with his very life. Where I had thought I was taking that responsibility for myself, I realised that it had been conveyed to me in the subtlest of manners. I was glad I had not known that sooner, for the added burden would have crushed me beneath its weight.

"I am sure," I said, somewhat shakily, "that the events that transpired must have made you question your decision at some point?"

"No, Watson, never. I do, however, feel confirmed in my assertion that I am much better off in my own bed than inside the confines of a hospital. You will never dissuade me from that belief. I consider myself extremely fortunate for emerging from that fearful place alive."

I laughed from sheer relief at knowing he was not holding a grudge. "Fortunate or blessed, I'm not sure which. But that reminds me – I have something here that you may find most interesting."

I took the stained and folded sheet I had rescued from the papers of ex-President Murillo and passed it across to Holmes for inspection.

"I can't make this out," he said, squinting at the page. "Something about me and–"

He paused and his face assumed an expression of mock outrage.

"This is most libellous, Watson. The writer has the infernal liberty to suggest that my extraordinary powers of observation and deduction can only spring from my being in league with the Devil."

"I thought you might find that amusing."

He chuckled merrily.

"Oh, I do. The funny thing is I think I remember the fellow. It was in connection with another case. He asked if I was really as good as everyone said, so I gave him an exact description of his activities that day, based on the state of his shoes, trousers, cuffs and hair. Never have I seen anyone look more thunderstruck. Every time after that when I looked in his direction, he crossed himself and muttered something in Spanish. Well, now I know why."

"You really should be more careful," I said. "I have always maintained that had you lived in a previous century, you would have been decried as a witch."

His lips twitched upwards in acknowledgement of his good humour. "Perhaps I am, Watson. For instance, I have an uncanny ability to magic things from thin air."

"Stuff and nonsense."

"Oh, you disbelieve me. Would you care for a demonstration? Perhaps I could reunite you with the necklace that Jim Hancock stole from Lord Lewis' safe."

"If you could do that, I would be truly impressed."

Holmes smiled and delved into the pocket of his dressing gown.

"Is that what you were looking for?" said he, dangling the sparkling piece of jewellery from his forefinger.

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, taking it from him. "However did you come by it?"

He released a long breath and lay back against the pillow I had propped behind him.

"By purely rational means, I can assure you. Yesterday, while you were out, a visitor called, a certain repentant safe-breaker turned baker of your acquaintance. He expressed deep regret for his actions and placed in my hand this expensive bauble. Oh, and he apologises for his threatening behaviour, if it's of any consolation."

I stared at the cluster of diamonds and rubies, and wondered what had possessed Hancock to turn over his felonious goods.

"A conscience perhaps, who knows?" said Holmes in answer to my question. "Although I dare say my telegram warning him of the consequences if he did not return the necklace may have helped."

He chuckled at my consternation.

"Come, come, my dear fellow, it was the least I could do. You have been in the blackest of moods since this affair ended, which as I have owned was due in some small part to my own shortcomings. _Mea culpa_, Watson, _mea culpa_. You may quote me on that, if you so wish."

"I was not intending to commit the case to paper."

"But you must," he insisted; "it was a truly fascinating business. Although for the sake of all concerned, I should delay publication until a suitable period has passed, otherwise you may find yourself subject to some very awkward questions."

"In all honesty, Holmes, I would rather forget about the whole thing. If I am to write of anything, I would much prefer it to be of that case you promised to tell me about when you were recovered. The Prestidigitator's Python, I think you said?"

He smiled indulgently.

"I am not one to break a promise, but tell me, are _you_ quite recovered? It was a most scandalous business, after all, and not one for delicate ears."

"My ears are hardy enough," said I with amusement, rising to pour us both a drink. "As for the rest of me, I am well on the mend."

"That is good to hear," said he, accepting my offering. "In that case, you must indulge my poor attempt at story-telling, which may well take up the better part of the afternoon and long into the evening. Do take up your journal and pen, my dear fellow, for I fear my strength may not bear a second telling should you miss some salient point. Now, where shall I begin?"

**The End**

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Well, I've had a lot of fun with this story, so much so that I'm sorry this little adventure has come to an end.

My thanks to everyone for reading, to everyone who left comments and all those who sent me PMs, especially about those little details that get past me sometimes. I hope you've all enjoyed it.

And if you are burning with curiosity to know about this business with the python, then onwards to read **'The Curious Case of the Prestidigitator's Python'**!

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_**Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson are the creations are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Characters and incidents mentioned in this work are entirely fictitious. This work of fan fiction has not been created for profit nor authorised by any official body.**_


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